A  LIKELY 
STORY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JOSEPH  VANCE 

An  intensely  human  and  humorous  novel  of 
life  near  London  in  the  '50s.  $1.75. 

"  The  first  great  English  novel  that  has  appeared  in  the 
20th  Century/'— New  York  Times  Review. 

ALICE-FOR-SHORT 

The  story  of  a  London  waif,  a  friendly  artist, 
his  friends  and  family.  $1 .75. 

"  If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  half  a  century 
hence,  a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is 
William  De  Morgan."— Botton  Transcript. 

SOMEHOW  GOOD 

A  lovable,  humorous  romance  of  modern 
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"  A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as 
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IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A  strange  story  of  certain  marital  complica- 
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"  De  Morgan  at  his  very  best."— Independent. 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

Perhaps  the  author's  most  dramatic  novel. 
It  deals  with  the  events  that  followed  a  duel  in 
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humor.  $1.75. 

A  LIKELY  STORY 

A  capital  story  in  Mr.  De  Morgan's  old  vein 
which  should  be  as  popular  as  anything  he  has 
ever  written.  $1.35  net. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 


J-  tovi-   C 


A  LIKELY  STORY 


BY 


WILLIAM  DE   MORGAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "JOSEPH  VANCE,"  "ALICE-FOR-SHORT," 
ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published  November,  1911 


THE    QUINN    A    BODEN    CO.   PRESS 
RAHWAT,    N.  J. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  GOOD  DEAL  ABOUT  A  BOX  OF  MATCHES.  CONCERNING  A 
MABBIED  COUPLE,  WHOM  ANYONE  WOULD  HAVE 
THOUGHT  QUARRELSOME,  TO  LISTEN  TO  THEM.  OF  THE 
DIFFICULTY  WITH  WHICH  THE  LADY  HOUSEKEPT,  AND 
HOW  HER  HUSBAND  WAS  NO  HELP  AT  ALL.  BUT  THEY 
WENT  TO  THE  OLD  WATER  COLOUR.  HOW  SAIRAH  ONLY 
JUST  WIPED  GENTLY  OVER  A  TACKY  PICTURE,  AND  MR. 
AIKEN  SAID  GOD  AND  DEVIL.  OF  THE  PLURAL  NUMBER. 
OF  A  VERY  PRETTY  GIRL,  BUT  DRESSY,  AND  HER  SOLDIER 
LOVER,  AND  HOW  MRS.  AIKEN  WAS  PROPER.  OF  HER 
MYSTICAL  UTTERANCE  ABOUT  THE  YOUNG  LADT.  HOW 
MB.  AIKEN  SOUGHT  FOB  AN  EXPLANATION  FROM 
SAIRAH,  AND  CREATED  A  SITUATION.  HOW  HIS  WTFE 
WENT  TO  HER  AUNT  PRISCILLA,  AT  ATHABASCA  VILLA, 
AND  CRIED  HERSELF  TO  SLEEP 1 

CHAPTER  II 

HOW  A  LITTLE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WAS  LEFT  ALONE  IN  A 
LIBRARY,  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  PICTURE  SAIRAH  HAD  ONLY 
JUST  WIPED  GENTLY.  HOW  HE  WOKE  UP  FROM  A 
DREAM,  WHICH  WENT  ON.  THE  LOQUACITY  OF  A  PIC- 
TUBE,  AND  HOW  HE  POINTED  OUT  TO  IT  ITS  UN- 
REALITY. THE  ARTIST'S  NAME.  THERE  WAS  PLENTY 

OF    TIME    TO    HEAR    MORE.      THE    EXACT    DATE    OF    AN- 
TIQUITY.     THE  RATIONAL  WAY  OF  ACCOUNTING  FOB  IT        40 

CHAPTER  III 

THE  PICTURE'S  TALE.  IT  WAS  so  WELL  PAINTED — THAT 
WAS  WHY  IT  COULD  HEAR  FOUR  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 
HOW  ITS  PAINTER  HUNGERED  AND  THIRSTED  FOR  ITS 
ORIGINAL,  AND  VICE  VERSA.  HOW  OLD  JANUARY  HID 
IN  A  SPY-HOLE,  TO  WATCH  MAY,  AND  SAW  IT  ALL. 
OF  POPE  INNOCENT'S  PENETRATION.  OF  CERTAIN 
BELLS,  UNWELCOME  ONES.  HOW  TWO  INNAMOBATI 
iii 


829176 


iv  CONTENTS 

I'AOK 

TRIED  TO  PART  WITHOUT  A  KISS,  AND  FAILED.  NEVER- 
THELESS ASSASSINS  STOPPED  IT  WHEN  IT  HAD  ONLY 
JUST  BEGUN.  BUT  GIACINTO  GOT  AT  JANUARY'S 
THROAT.  HOW  THE  PICTURE  WAS  FRAMED.  AND  HUNG 
WHERE  MAY  COULD  ONLY  SEE  IT  BY  TWISTING.  OF 
THE  DUNGEON  BELOW  HER,  WHERE  GIACINTO  MIGHT 
BE.  HOW  JANUARY  DUG  AT  MAY  WITH  A  WALKING- 
STAFF.  HOW  THE  PICTURE  WAS  IX  ABEYANCE,  BUT 
LOVED  A  FIREFLY;  THEN  WAS  INTERRED  IN  FURNITURE, 
AND  THREE  CENTURIES  SLIPPED  BY.  HOW  IT  SOLD  FOR 
SIX-FIFTY,  AND  WAS  SENT  TO  LONDON,  TO  A  PICTURE- 
RESTORER,  WHICH  IS  HOW  IT  COMES  INTO  THE  TALE. 
HOW  MR.  PELLY  WOKE  UP 51 

CHAPTER  IV 

A  RETROSPECTIVE  CHAPTER.  HOW  FORTUNE'S  TOY  AND  THE 
SPORT  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  ONE 
OF  HIS  NURSES.  PROSE  COMPOSITION.  LADY  UP- 
WELL'S  MAJESTY,  AND  THE  QUEEN'S.  NO  ENGAGEMENT. 
THE  AFRICAN  WAR,  AND  JUSTIFIABLE  FRATRICIDE. 
CAIN.  MADELINE'S  BIG  DOG  CAESAR.  CATS.  ORMUZD 
AND  AHRIMAN.  A  HANDY  LITTLE  VELDT.  MADELINE'S 
JAPANESE  KIMONO.  A  DISCUSSION  OF  THE  NATURE  OF 
DREAMS.  NEVER  MIND  ATHEN.EUS.  LOOK  AT  THE 
PROPHET  DANIEL.  SIR  STOPLEIGH'S  GREAT-AUNT  DORO- 
THEA'S TWINS.  THE  CIRCULATING  LIBRARY  AND  THE 
POTTED  SHRIMPS.  HOW  MADELINE  READ  THE  MANU- 
SCRIPT IN  BED,  AND  TOOK  CARE  NOT  TO  SET  FIRE  TO 
THE  CURTAINS  . 107 

CHAPTER  V 

MR.  AIKEN'S  SEQUEL.  PIMLICO  STUDIOS.  MR.  HUGHES'S 
IDEA.  ASPECTS  OF  NATURE.  MR.  HUGHES'S  FOOT. 
WHAT  HAD  MR.  AIKEN  BEEN  AT?  KOT  FANNY  SMITH. 
IT  WAS  SAIRAH  !  !  WHO  MISUNDERSTOOD  AND  TURNED 
VERMILION?  HER  MALICE.  THE  REGENT'S  CANAL. 
MR.  AIKEN'S  ADVICE  FROM  HIS  FRIENDS.  WOMAN  AND 
HER  SEX.  HOW  MR.  HUGHES  VISITED  MR.  AIKEN  ONE 
EVENING,  AND  THE  POST  CAME.  WITH  SOMETHING  TOO 
BIG  FOR  THE  BOX,  WHILE  MRS.  PARPLES  SLEPT.  MR. 
AIKEN'S  VERY  SINCERELY  MADELINE  UPWELL.  HER 
TRANSPARENCY.  HOW  THE  PICTURE'S  PHOTO  STOOD  ON 
THE  TABLE.  INTERESTING  LUCUBRATIONS  OF  MB. 
HUGHES.  WHAT  WAS  THAT?  BUT  IT  WAS  NOTHING 

ONLY  AN  EFFECT  OF  SOMETHING.    THE  VERNACULAR 

MIND.     NEGATIVE  JURIES.     HOW  MR.  AIKEN  STOPPED 

AN  ECHO,  SO  IT  WAS  MR.  HUGHES'S  FANCY    .        .        .     124 


CONTENTS  v 

CHAPTER  VI 

PAGE 

FOLLOWS  MRS.  EUPHEMIA  AIKEN  TO  COOMBE  AND  MALDEN. 
PROPER  PRIDE.  YOU  CANNOT  GO  BACK  ON  A  RAILWAY 
TICKET,  HOWEVER  SMALL  ITS  PRICE.  ONE'S  AUNTS. 
HOW  MISS  PBISCILLA  BAX  WAS  NOT  SURPRISED  WHEN 
SHE  HEARD  IT  WAS  REGINALD.  OF  THE  UPAS  TREE  OF 
REPUTATIONS — THE  PURE  MIND.  HOW  AUNT  PRISCEY 
WORKED  HER  NIECE  UP.  A  DEXTEROUS  CITATION  FROM 
EPISTLES.  NEVER  WRITE  A  LETTER,  IF  YOU  WANT  THE 
WIND  TO  LULL.  ELLEN  JANE  DUDBURY  AND  HER 
MAMMA.  OF  JU-JITSU  AS  AN  ANTIDOTE  TO  TATTLE. 
OF  THE  RELATIVE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMMORTALITY  TO 
THE  TWO  SEXES.  OF  GOOD  SOULS  AND  BUSY  BODIES, 
AND  OF  THE  GROOBS.  HOW  THAT  ODIOUS  LITTLE  DOLLY 
WAS  THE  MODERN  ZURBARAN.  BUT  HE  HAD  NEVER  SO 
MUCH  AS  CALLED.  COLOSSIANS  THREE-EIGHTEEN. 
MISS  JESSIE  BAX  AND  HER  PUPPY.  MISS  VOLUMNIA 
BAX.  THE  DELICACY  OF  THE  FEMALE  CHARACTER.  OF 
THE  RADIO-ACTIVITY  OF  SPACE  AND  HOW  MR.  ADOLPHUS 
GBOOB  SAT  NEXT  TO  MRS.  AIKEN.  THE  GODFREY 
PYBUSES.  BUT  THEY  HAVE  NOTHING  TO  DO  WITH  THE 
STORY.  HOW  TIME  SLIPPED  BY,  AND  HOW  MR.  AIKEN 
EMPLOYED  HIM  TILL  THE  YEAR  DREW  TO  AN  END  .  .  156 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE  UPWELL  FAMILY  IN  LONDON.  HOW  MADELINE  PROM- 
ISED NOT  TO  GET  MIXED  UP.  A  NICE  SUBURBAN  BOY, 
WITH  A  TWO-POWER  STANDARD.  NO  JACK  NOW!  THE 
SILVER  TEAPOT.  MISS  PRISCILLA'S  EXTRACTION.  IM- 
PERIALISM. HORACE  WALPOLE  AND  JOHN  BUNYAN. 
THE  TAPLEYS.  HOW  AN  ITEM  IN  THE  "  TELEGRAPH  " 
UPSET  MADELINE.  HOW  SHE  FAILED  IN  HER  MISSION, 
BUT  LEFT  A  PHOTOGRAPH  BEHIND  HER.  THE  LATE 
LADY  BETTY  DUSTER'S  CHIN.  HOW  MRS.  AIKEN  STAYED 
DOWNSTAIRS  AND  WENT  TO  SLEEP  IN  AN  ARM-CHAIR, 
AND  OF  A  CURIOUS  EXPERIENCE  SHE  HAD.  HOW  SHE 
RELATED  THE  SAME  TO  HER  COUSIN  VOLUMNIA.  OF 
ICILIA  CIARANFI  AND  DONNINA  MAGLIABECCHI,  AND  OF 
THE  DUST.  THE  PSYCHOMORPHIC  REPORT.  HOW  MISS 
VOLUMNIA  DID  NOT  LOSE  HER  TRAIN  ....  193 

CHAPTER  VIII 

HOW  MRS.  EUPHEMIA  AIKEN  FOUND  MADELINE  AT  HOME, 
WHO  CONSEQUENTLY  DID  NOT  GO  TO  A  BUN-WORRY. 
BUT  SHE  HAD  MET  MISS  BAX.  HOW  THESE  LADIES 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EACH  CONFESSED  TO  BOGYISM,  OF  A  SORT,  AND  MADE- 
LINE SAID  MAKE  IT  UP.  HOW  MR.  AIKEN  TOOK  MR. 
TICK'S  ADVICE  ABOUT  DIANA,  BUT  COULD  NOT  FIND 
HIS  TRANSPARENT  OXIDE  OF  CHROMIUM.  MAN  AT  HIS 
LONELIEST.  NO  TEA.  AND  WHAT  A  JUGGINS  HE  HAD 
BEEN!  OF  MRS.  GAPP'S  DIPSOMANIA.  THE  BOYS.  HOW 
MR.  AIKEN  LIT  THE  GAS,  AND  HEARD  A  CAB.  HOW  HE 
NEARLY  KISSED  MADELINE,  WHO  HAD  BROUGHT  HIS 
WIFE  HOME,  BUT  IT  WAS  ONLY  A  MISTAKE,  GLORY  BE! 
WAS  THERE  SOAP  IN  THE  HOUSE?  ....  239 

CHAPTER  IX 

MADELINE'S  REPORT,  TSEXT  MORNING.  CHARLES  MATHEWS 
AND  MADAME  VESTEIS.  HOW  WELL  MADELINE  HELD 
HER  TONGUE  TO  KEEP  HER  PROMISE.  AN  ANTICIPATION' 
OF  POST-STORY  TIME.  HOW  A  DEPUTATION  WAITED  OX 
MRS.  AIKEN  FROM  THE  PSYCHOMORPHIC.  MR.  MACANI- 
MUS  AND  MR.  VACAW.  GEVABTIUS  MUCH  MORE  COR- 
RECT FOR  MISS  JESSIE  TO  LISTEN  TO  THAN  THE 
LAUGHING  CAVALIER.  OF  SELF-HYPNOSIS  AND  GHOSTS. 
THEIR  RESPECTIVE  CATEGORIES.  THE  MAD  CAT'S  NOSE 
OUTSIDE  THE  BLANKET.  SINGULAR  AUTOPHRENETIC  EX- 
PERIENCE OF  MR.  ATKEN.  STENOGRAPHY.  A  CASE  IX 
POINT.  NOT  A  PHENOMENON  AT  ALL.  HOW  MISS 
VOLUMNIA'S  PENETRATION  PENETRATED,  AND  GOT  AT 
SOMETHING.  SUGGESTION  TRACED  HOME.  ENOUGH  TO 
EXPLAIN  ANY  PHENOMENON  ......  263 

CHAPTER  X 

HOW  MR.  PELLY,  SUBJECT  TO  INTERRUPTION,  READ  ALOUD  A 
TRANSLATION  FROM  ITALIAN.  WHO  WAS  THE  OLD 
DEVIL?  WHO  WAS  THE  DUCHESSA?  OF  THE  KAB- 
RATOR'S  INCARCERATION.  OF  HIS  INCREDIBLE  ESCAPE. 
WHOSE  HORSE  WAS  THAT  IN  THE  AVENUE?  HOW 
MB.  PELLY  BEAD  FASTER.  WAS  UGUCCIO  KILLED?  SIR 
STOPLEIGH  SCANDALIZED.  BUT  THEN  IT  WAS  THE  MID- 
DLE AGES — ONE  OF  THEM,  ANYHOW!  HOW  ONLY 
DUCHESSES  KNOW  IF  DUKES  ARE  ASLEEP.  OF  THE 
BONE  MR.  PELLY  PICKED  WITH  MADELINE.  BUT 
WHAT  BECOMES  OF  UNCONSCIOUS  CEREBRATION?  AM- 
BROISE  PARE.  MARTA'S  LITTLE  KNIFE.  LOVE  WAS  NOT 
UNKNOWN  IN  THE  MIDDLE  AGES.  THE  END  OF  THE 
MANUSCRIPT.  BUT  SIR  STOPLEIGH  WENT  OUT  TO  SEE 
A  VISITOR,  IN  THE  MIDDLE.  HOW  MADELINE  TURNED 
WHITE,  AND  WENT  SUDDENLY  TO  BED.  WHAT  WAS  IT 
ALL  ABOUT?  SEVENTY-SEVEN  COULD  WATT  .  285 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

HOW  THE  PICTUBE  SPOKE  AGAIN.  ABSTRACT  METAPHYS- 
ICAL QUESTIONS,  AND  NO  ANSWERS.  HOW  THE  PIC- 
TURE'S MEMORY  WAS  SHARPENED,  AND  HOW  MR.  PELLY 
WOKE  UP.  MR.  STEBBINGS  AND  MRS.  BUCKMASTER. 
THE  ACTULE  FAX.  JACK'S  RESURRECTION,  WITHOUT 
AN  ARM.  FULL  PARTICULARS.  ALL  FAIR  IN  LOVE.  HOW 
MR.  PELLY  KNEW  THE  PICTURE  COULD  SEE  ALL  AND 
HOW  MADELINE  HAD  NOT  GONE  TO  BED.  CAPTAIN 
MACLAGAN'S  FAMILY.  FULLER  PARTICULARS.  GEN- 
ERAL FORDYCE  AND  THE  BART.  NOT  WANTED.  WHAT 
THE  PICTURE  MUST  HAVE  SEEN  AND  MAY  HAVE 
THOUGHT.  GOOD-BYE  TO  THE  STORY.  MERE  POST- 
SCRIPT   336 

AN  APOLOGY  IX  CONFIDENCE  .  359 


A  LIKELY  STORY 

CHAPTEE  I 

A  GOOD  DEAL  ABOUT  A  BOX  OF  MATCHES.  CONCERNING  A  MARRIED 
COUPLE,  WHOM  ANYONE  WOULD  HAVE  THOUGHT  QUARRELSOME, 
TO  LISTEN  TO  THEM.  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY  WITH  WHICH  THE 
LADY  HOUSEKEPT,  AND  HOW  HER  HUSBAND  WAS  NO  HELP  AT 
ALL.  BUT  THEY  WENT  TO  THE  OLD  WATER  COLOUR.  HOW 
SAIBAH  ONLY  JUST  WIPED  GENTLY  OVER  A  TACKY  PICTURE, 
AND  MR.  AIKEN  SAID  GOD  AND  DEVIL.  OF  THE  PLURAL  NUM- 
BER OF  A  VERY  PRETTY  GIRL,  BUT  DRESSY,  AND  HER  SOLDIER 
LOVER,  AND  HOW  MRS.  AIKEN  WAS  PROPER.  OF  HER  MYS- 
TICAL UTTERANCE  ABOUT  THE  YOUNG  LADY.  HOW  MR.  AIKEN 
SOUGHT  FOR  AN  EXPLANATION  FROM  SAIRAH,  AND  CREATED 
A  SITUATION.  HOW  HIS  WIFE  WENT  TO  HER  AUNT  PBISCILLA, 
AT  ATHABASCA  VILLA,  AND  CRIED  HERSELF  TO  SLEEP 

"  YOU'LL  have  to  light  the  gas,  Sairah !  "  said  an 
Artist  in  a  fog,  one  morning  in  Chelsea.  For  al- 
though summer  was  on  the  horizon,  it  was  cold  and 
damp;  and,  as  we  all  know,  till  fires  come  to  an 
end,  London  is  not  fogless — if,  indeed,  it  ever  is  so. 
This  was  a  very  black  fog,  of  the  sort  that  is  sure  to 
go  off  presently,  because  it  is  only  due  to  atmos- 
pheric conditions.  Meanwhile,  it  was  just  as  well 
to  light  the  gas,  and  not  go  on  pretending  you  could 
see  and  putting  your  eyes  out. 

This  Artist,  after  putting  his  eyes  out,  called  out, 
from  a  dark  corner  in  his  Studio,  to  something  in  a 


2  A  LIKELY  STORY 

dark  corner  outside.  And  that  something  shuffled 
into  the  room  and  scratched  something  else  several 
times  at  intervals  on  something  gritty.  It  was 
Sairah,  evidently,  and  Sairah  appeared  impatient. 

"  They're  damp,  Sairah,"  said  the  Artist  feebly. 
"  Why  do  you  get  that  sort  ?  Why  can't  you  get 
Bryant  and  May  ?  " 

"  These  are  Bryant  and  May,  Mr.  Aching.  You 
can  light  'em  yourself  if  it  sootes  you  better.  I  know 
my  place.  Only  they're  Safety,  and  fly  in  your 
eye.  Puttin'  of  'em  down  to  dry  improves.  I'd 
screw  up  a  spell,  only  there's  no  gettin'  inside  of  the 
stove.  Nor  yet  any  fire,  in  the  manner  of  speaking." 

The  scratching  continued.  So  did  Sairah's  im- 
patience. Then  the  supply  of  the  something 
stopped,  for  Sairah  said :  "  There  ain't  any  more. 
That's  the  hend  of  the  box.  And  exceptin'  I  go  all 
the  way  to  the  King's  Road  there  ain't  another  in 
the  house — not  Bryant  and  May." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  "  said  the  Artist,  in  the  lowest 
spirits.  But  he  brightened  up.  "  Perhaps  there's 
a  Vesta,"  said  he. 

Sairah  threw  the  thing  nearest  to  her  against  the 
thing  nearest  to  it  to  indicate  her  readiness  to 
search. 

"  Look  in  the  pocket  of  my  plaid  overcoat, 
Sairah,"  he  continued.  "  It  was  a  new  box 
Tuesday." 


A  LIKELY  STORY  3 

Sairah  shuffled  into  another  room,  and  was  heard 
to  turn  over  garments.  The  Artist  seemed  to  know 
which  was  which,  by  the  sound.  For  he  called 
out :  "  None  of  those !  On  the  hook."  Sairah 
appeared  to  turn  up  the  soil  in  a  new  claim,  and 
presently  announced :  "  Nothing  in  neither  pocket. 
Only  coppers  and  a  thrip'ny !  " 

"  Oh  dear — I'm  certain  there  was !  Are  you  sure 
you've  looked?  Just  look  again,  Sairah."  He 
seemed  distressed  that  there  should  be  no  Vesta  in 
his  overcoat  pocket. 

"  You  can  see  for  yourself — by  lookin',"  says 
Sairah.  "  And  then  there  won't  be  any  turnin' 
round  and  blamin'  me !  "  Whereupon  she  appears, 
bearing  a  garment.  The  reason  she  shuffles  is  that 
she  has  to  hold  the  heels  of  her  shoes  down  on  the 
floor  with  her  feet. 

The  owner  of  the  overcoat  dived  deep  into  the 
pockets,  but  found  nothing.  He  appeared  dumb- 
foundered.  "Well,  now!"  he  continued.  "What- 
ever can  have  become  of  my  Vestas  ? "  And 
thereon,  as  one  in  panic  on  emergency,  he  put  down 
the  sponge  and  brush  he  was  using  and  searched 
rapidly  through  all  his  other  pockets.  He  slapped 
himself  in  such  places  as  might  still  contain  for- 
gotten pockets;  and  then  stood  in  thought,  as  one 
to  whom  a  light  of  memory  will  come  if  he  thinks 
hard  enough,  but  with  a  certain  glare  and  distortion 


4  A  LIKELY  STORY 

of  visage  to  say,  in  place  of  speech,  how  truly  active 
is  his  effort  of  thought.  And  then  of  a  sudden  he 
is  illuminated,  and  says  of  course! — he  knows! 
But  he  doesn't  know,  for,  after  leaving  the  room  to 
seek  for  his  Vestas,  and  banging  some  doors,  he 
comes  back,  saying  he  thought  they  were  there 
and  they  aren't.  Wherefore,  Sairah  must  run  out 
and  get  some  more;  and  look  sharp,  because  they 
must  have  the  gas!  But  Sairah,  who  has  not  been 
exerting  herself,  awakes  suddenly  from  something 
equivalent  to  sleep  which  she  can  indulge  in  upright, 
•without  support,  and  says,  nodding  towards  a  thing 
she  speaks  of,  "  Ain't  that  them  on  the  stove  ? " 
And  the  Artist  says,  "  No,  it  isn't ;  it's  an  empty 
box.  Cut  along  and  look  sharp !  "  Sairah  made  no 
response  and  time  was  lost  in  conversation,  as 
follows : 

"  That  ain't  an  empty  box !  " 

"  It  is  an  empty  box !  Do  cut  along  and  look 
sharp!" 

"  It  ain't  my  idear  of  an  empty  box.  But,  of 
course,  it  ain't  for  me  to  say  nothin' !  " 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  quite  sure  it's  empty.  Perfectly 
certain!  " 

"  Well !  It  ain't  for  me  to  say  anything.  But 
if  you  had  a  asted  me,  I  should  have  said  there 
wouldn't  any  harm  have  come  of  looking  inside  of 
it,  to  see.  Of  course  I  can  go,  if  you  come  to 


A  LIKELY  STORY  5 

that !  Only  there's  tandstickers  in  the  kitchen, 
and  for  the  matter  of  that,  the  fire  ain't  let  out; 
nor  likely  when  it's  not  the  sweep  till  Wednesday." 

"  Get  'em  out  of  the  kitchen,  then !  Get  the  tand- 
stickers or  get  anything.  Anywhere;  only  look 
alive !  "  He  seemed  roused  to  impatience. 

"  Of  course  I  can  get  them  out  of  the  kitchen. 
Or  there's  missuses  bedroom  candlestick  stood  on 
the  landin',  with  one  in,  and  guttered."  Sairah 
enumerated  two  or  three  other  resources  unex- 
hausted, and  left  the  room. 

When  she  had  vanished,  the  Artist  went  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  stove,  for  it  was  too  dark 
to  work.  Being  there,  he  picked  up  the  empty  box 
and  seemed  to  examine  it.  Having  done  so,  he 
left  the  room,  and  called  over  the  stair-rail,  to  a 
lower  region. 

"Sair-ah!" 

"Did  you  call,  Sir?" 

"  Yes — you  needn't  go !     There's  some  here." 

"  'Arf  a  minute  till  I  put  these  back." 

And  then  from  underground  came  the  voice  of 
the  young  woman  saying  something  enigmatical 
about  always  wishing  to  give  satisfaction,  and  there 
was  never  any  knowing.  But  she  remained  below, 
because  her  master  said :  "  You  needn't  come  up 
again  now.  I'll  light  it  myself."  In  ^n  instant, 
however,  he  called  out  again  that  she  must  bring 


6  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

the  matches,  after  all,  because  the  Vestas  were  all 
stuck  to,  through  being  on  the  stove.  When 
Sairah  reappeared,  after  a  good  deal  of  shuffling 
about  below,  he  asked  her  why  on  earth  she  couldn't 
come  at  once.  She  explained,  with  some  indig- 
nation, that  she  had  been  doing  a  little  dusting  in 
the  parlour:  and,  of  course,  the  tandstickers,  she 
put  'em  back  in  the  kitchen,  not  bein'  wanted,  as 
you  might  say.  But  all  obstacles  to  lighting  the 
gas  were  now  removed. 

Illumination  presented  itself  first  as  an  incom- 
bustible hiss;  but  shortly  became  a  flame,  and  was 
bright  enough  to  work  by.  The  Artist  did  not  seem 
very  contented  with  it,  and  said  that  the  pressure 
was  weak,  and  it  was  off  at  the  main,  and  there 
was  water  in  the  pipes,  and  the  gas  was  bad  and 
very  dear.  But  he  worked  for  half-an-hour  or  so, 
and  then  a  young  woman  came  in,  of  whom  he  took 
no  notice;  so  she  must  have  been  his  wife.  Of 
whom  anyone  might  have  thought  that  she  was 
stopping  away  from  a  funeral  against  her  will,  and 
resented  the  restraint.  For  she  bit  her  lips  and 
tapped  with  her  feet  as  she  sat  in  the  arm-chair 
she  dropped  into  when  she  entered  the  room.  She 
made  no  remark,  but  maintained  an  aggressive 
silence.  Presently  the  young  man  moaned. 

"  What  is  the  rumpus  ? "  said  he  plaintively. 
"  What  is  the  everlasting  rumpus  ?  " 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  7 

"  It's  very  easy  for  you.  Men  can !  But  if  you 
were  a  woman,  you  would  feel  it  like  I  do.  Thank 
God,  Keginald,  you  are  not  a  woman !  " 

"  Good  job  I  ain't!  We  might  quarrel,  if  I  was. 
You've  got  something  to  be  thankful  for,  you  see, 
Mrs.  Hay."  This  way  of  addressing  her,  as  Mrs. 
Hay,  was  due  to  the  substitution  of  the  initial  for 
the  whole  name,  which  was  Aiken. 

"  Oh,  you  are  unfeeling,"  said  she  reproachfully. 
"  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  meant !  " 

"  Meant  that  you  thanked  God  I  wasn't  a  woman." 
But  this  made  the  lady  evince  despair.  "  Well  I—- 
what did  you  mean,  then  ?  Spit  it  out." 

"  You  are  tired  of  me,  Keginald,  and  I  shall  go  for 
my  walk  alone.  Of  course,  what  I  meant  was  plain 
enough,  to  any  but  a  downright  fool.  I  meant  you 
were  to  thank  God,  Reginald — on  your  knees ! — 
that  you  were  a  man  and  not  a  woman.  The  idea 
of  my  saying  anything  so  silly!  Wait  till  you  are 
a  woman,  and  then  see !  But  if  you're  not  coming, 
I  shall  go.  I  don't  know  why  you  want  the  gas. 
It  all  mounts  up  in  the  bills.  And  then  I  shall  be 
found  fault  with,  I  suppose." 

"  I  want  the  gas  because  I  can't  see  without  it." 

After  a  phase  of  despair,  followed  by  resignation, 
the  lady  said,  speaking  in  the  effect  of  the  latter: 
"  I  think,  Eeginald,  if  you  had  any  regard  for  the 
bills,  you  would  just  look  out  of  the  window,  once  in 


8  A  LIKELY  STORY 

an  hour  or  so,  and  not  consume  all  those  cubic  feet 
of  gas  at  three-and-ninepence.  The  fog's  gone! 
There's  the  sun.  I  knew  it  would  be,  and  it  was 
perfectly  ridiculous  to  put  off  going  to  the  Old 
Water  Colour." 

"  Suppose  we  go,  then  ?  Hay,  Mrs.  Hay  ?  Get 
your  hat,  and  we'll  go."  He  turned  the  gas  out. 

"  Oh  no !  It's  no  use  going  now — it's  too  late. 
And  it's  all  so  depressing.  And  you  know  it  is! 
And  I  shall  have  to  get  rid  of  this  new  girl,  Sairah." 

"  I  thought  she  looked  honest."  This  was 
spoken  feebly. 

She  answered  irritably :  "  You  always  think  they 
look  honest  when  they're  ugly.  This  one's  no  better 
than  they  all  are.  It's  not  the  honesty,  though. 
It's  she  won't  do  anything." 

"  Why  didn't  you  have  that  rather  pleasin'- 
looking  gyairl  with  a  bird's  wing  on  her  hat  ?  " 

"  That  conscious  minx !  I  really  do  sometimes 
quite  wonder  at  you,  Reginald !  Besides,  she  wanted 
a  parlourmaid's  place,  and  wouldn't  go  where  there 
wasn't  a  manservant  kept.  You  men  are  such 
fools !  And  you  don't  give  any  help." 

Mr.  Aiken,  observing  a  disposition  to  weep  in  these 
last  words,  seemed  embarrassed  for  a  moment;  but 
after  reflection  became  conciliatory.  "  Sairah  does 
seem  lazy.  But  she  says  she's  not  been  accus- 
tomed." 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  9 

"  And  then  you  give  way !  You  might  put  that 
magnifying-glass  down  just  for  one  moment,  and 
pay  attention!  Of  course,  she  says  she's  not  been 
accustomed  to  anything  and  everything.  They  all 
do!  But  what  can  one  expect  when  their  master 
blacks  his  own  boots  ?  " 

"  What  can  /  do,  when  she  says  she  hopes  she 
knows  her  place,  and  she  ain't  a  general,  where  a 
boy  comes  in  to  do  the  rough  work  ?  " 

"What  can  you  do?  Why,  of  course  not  carry 
your  dirty  boots  down  into  the  kitchen  and  black 
them  yourself,  and  have  her  say,  when  you  ask  for 
the  blacking,  do  you  know  where  it's  kept  ?  I've  no 
patience!  But  some  men  will  put  up  with  any- 
thing, except  their  wives;  and  then  one's  head's 
snapped  off!  'Do  you  know  where  it's  kept!'  The 
idea !  .  .  .  Well,  are  you  coming,  or  are  you  not  ? 
Because,  if  you're  coming,  I  must  put  on  my  grey 
tweed.  If  you're  not  coming,  say  so !  " 

But  Mr.  Aiken  did  not  say  so.  So,  after  a  good 
deal  of  time  needlessly  spent  in  preparation,  the  two 
asked  each  other  several  times  if  they  were  ready, 
shouting  about  the  house  to  that  effect.  And  then, 
when  they  reappeared  in  the  Studio,  having  suc- 
ceeded very  indifferently  in  improving  their  appear- 
ance, the  lady  asked  the  gentleman  more  than  once 
whether  she  looked  right,  and  he  said  in  a  debili- 
^tated  way,  Yes! — he  thought  so.  Whereon  she 


10  A  LIKELY  STORY 

took  exception  to  his  want  of  interest  in  her  appear- 
ance, and  he  said  she  needn't  catch  him  up  so  short. 
However,  they  did  get  away  in  the  end,  and  Sairah 
came  in  to  do  a  little  tidin'  up — not  often  getting 
the  opportunity  in  the  Studio — in  pursuance  of  a 
programme  arranged  between  herself  and  her 
mistress,  in  an  aside  out  of  hearing  of  her  master, 
in  order  that  the  latter  should  not  interpose,  as  he 
always  did,  and  he  knew  it,  to  prevent  anything  the 
least  like  cleanness  or  order.  How  he  could  go  on 
so  was  a  wonder  to  his  wife. 

As  for  Sairah,  the  image  of  herself  which  she 
nourished  in  her  own  mind  was  apparently  that  of 
one  determined  to  struggle  single-handed  to  re- 
establish system  in  the  midst  of  a  world  given  over 
to  Chaos.  Whatever  state  the  place  would  get 
into  if  it  wasn't  for  her,  she  couldn't  tell!  The 
other  inhabitants  of  the  planet  would  never  do  a 
hand's  turn;  anyone  could  see  that!  In  fact,  the 
greater  part  of  them  devoted  themselves  to  leavin' 
things  about  for  her  to  clear  up.  The  remainder, 
to  gettin'  in  the  way.  When  you  were  that  worrited, 
you  might  very  easy  let  something  drop,  and  no 
great  wonder!  And  things  didn't  show,  not  when 
riveted,  if  only  done  careful  enough.  Or  a  little 
diamond  cement  hotted  up  and  the  edges  brought 
to.  There  was  a  man  they  knew  his  address  at 
Pibses  Dairy,  over  a  hivory-turner's  he  lived,  done 


A  LIKELY  STORY  11 

their  ornamential  pail  beautiful,  and  you  never  see 
a  crack ! 

But  Sairah's  alacrity,  when  she  found  herself 
alone  in  the  Studio,  fell  short  of  her  implied  forecast 
of  it.  Instead  of  taking  opportunity  by  the  fore- 
lock, and  doing  the  little  bit  of  tidying  up  that  she 
stood  pledged  to,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  Fine  Arts. 

Now,  there  were  two  Fine  Arts  to  which  this 
master,  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken,  devoted  himself.  One, 
the  production  of  original  compositions;  which  did 
not  pay,  owing  to  their  date.  Some  of  these  days 
they  would  be  worth  a  pot  of  money — you  see  if 
they  wouldn't !  The  other  Fine  Art  was  that  of 
the  picture-restorer,  and  did  pay.  At  any  rate,  it 
paid  enough  to  keep  Mr.  Aiken  and  his  wife — and  at 
this  particular  moment  Sairah — in  provisions  cooked 
and  quarrelled  over  at  the  street-door  by  the  latter; 
leaving  Mrs.  Aiken's  hundred  a  year,  which  her 
Aunt  Priscilla  allowed  her,  to  pay  the  rent  and  so 
on,  with  a  good  margin  for  cabs  and  such-like. 
Anyhow,  as  the  lady  of  the  house  helped  with  the 
house,  the  Aikens  managed,  somehow.  Or  perhaps 
it  should  be  said  that,  somehow,  the  Aikens  managed 
anyhow.  Mrs.  Verity,  their  landlady,  had  her 
opinions  about  this. 

This,  however,  is  by  the  way;  but,  arising  as  it 
does  from  this  Artist's  twofold  mission  in  life,  it 


12  A  LIKELY  STORY 

connects  itself  with  a  regrettable  occurrence  which 
came  about  in  consequence  of  Sairah's  not  con- 
fining herself  to  tidying  up,  and  getting  things  a  bit 
straight,  but  seizing  the  opportunity  to  do  a  little 
dusting  also. 

Those  on  whom  the  guardianship  of  a  picture 
recently  varnished  has  fallen  know  the  assiduous 
devotion  with  which  it  must  be  watched  to  protect 
it  from  insect-life  and  flue.  Even  the  larger  lepi- 
doptera  may  fail  to  detach  themselves  from  a  fat, 
slow-drying  varnish,  without  assistance;  and  who 
does  not  know  how  terribly  the  delicate  organization 
of  bettles'  legs  may  suffer  if  complicated  with 
treacle  or  other  glutinous  material.  But  beetles' 
legs  may  be  removed  with  care  from  varnish,  and 
leave  no  trace  of  their  presence,  provided  the 
varnish  is  not  too  dry.  Flue,  on  the  other  hand, 
at  any  stage  of  desiccation,  spells  ruin,  and  is  that 
nasty  and  messy  there's  no  doing  anything  with  it; 
and  you  may  just  worrit  yourself  mad,  and  sticky 
yourself  all  over,  and  only  make  matters  worse  than 
you  began.  So  you  may  just  as  well  let  be,  and  not 
be  took  off  your  work  no  longer;  nursing,  however, 
an  intention  of  saying  well  now! — you  declare,  who 
ever  could  have  done  that,  and  not  a  livin'  soul 
come  anigh  the  place,  you  having  been  close  to 
the  whole  time,  and  never  hardly  took  your  eyes 
off? 


A  LIKELY  STORY  13 

That  sketches  the  line  of  defence  Sairah  was  con- 
strained to  adopt,  after  what  certainly  was  at  least 
a  culpable  error  of  judgment.  She  should  not  have 
wiped  over  any  picture  at  all,  not  even  with  the 
cleanest  of  dusters.  And  though  the  one  she  used 
was  the  one  she  kep'  for  the  Studio,  nothing  war- 
ranted its  application  to  the  Italian  half-length  that 
had  been  entrusted  to  Mr.  Aiken  by  Sir  Stopleigh 
Upwell,  to  clean  and  varnish  carefully,  and  touch 
up  the  frame,  without  destroying  the  antique  feeling 
of  the  latter. 

Mr.  Aiken  was  certainly  to  blame  for  not  locking 
the  door  and  taking  away  the  key.  So  he  had  no 
excuse  for  using  what  is  called  strong  language 
when  he  and  his  wife  came  back  from  the  Old  Water 
Colour.  She  had  not  been  in  ten  minutes — a  period 
she  laid  great  stress  on — when  she  heard  him 
shouting  inside  the  Studio.  And  then  he  came  out 
in  the  passage  and  shouted  down  the  stairs. 

"  Good  God,  Euphemia !  where  are  you  ?  Where 
the  Devil  are  you  ?  Do  come  up  here !  I'm  ruined, 
I  tell  you !  .  .  .  that  brute  of  a  girl !  .  .  . "  And 
he  went  stamping  about  in  his  uncontrollable 
temper. 

His  wife  was  alarmed,  but  not  to  the  extent  of 
forgetting  to  enter  her  protest  against  the  strong 
language.  "  Reginald ! "  she  said  with  dignity, 
"  have  I  not  often  told  you  that  if  you  say  God 


14  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

and  Devil  I  shall  go  away  and  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  with  my  Aunt  Priscilla,  at  Coombe?  Before 
the  girl  and  all !  " 

But  her  husband  was  seriously  upset  at  some- 
thing. "  Don't  go  on  talking  like  an  idiot,"  he  said 
irritably.  Then  his  manner  softened,  as  though 
he  was  himself  a  little  penitent  for  the  strong 
language,  and  he  subsided  into  "  Do  come  up  and 
see  what  that  confounded  girl  has  done."  Those 
conversant  with  the  niceties  of  strong  language  will 
see  there  was  concession  in  this. 

Mrs.  Aiken  went  upstairs,  and  saw  what  the  con- 
founded girl  had  done.  But  she  did  not  seem 
impressed.  "  It  wants  a  rub,"  she  said.  Then  her 
husband  said,  "  That's  just  like  you,  Euphemia. 
You're  a  fool."  Whereupon  the  lady  said  in  a 
dignified  manner,  "  Perhaps  if  I  am  a  fool,  I'd 
better  go."  And  was,  as  it  were,  under  compulsion 
to  do  so,  seeing  that  no  objection  was  raised. 

But  she  must  have  gone  slowly,  inasmuch  as  she 
presently  called  back  from  the  landing,  "  What's 
that  you  said  ? "  not  without  severity. 

"  I  said  '  Call  the  girl.'  " 

"  You  said  nothing  of  the  sort.  What  was  it  you 
said  before  that  ?  " 

Now,  what  her  husband  had  said  was,  "  The  idea 
of  a  rub!  Idiotic  barbarian!  "  He  was  unable  to 
qualify  this  speech  effectually,  and  his  wife  went 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  15 

some  more  stairs  up.  Not  to  disappear  finally;  a 
compromise  was  possible. 

"  Did  you  say  '  idiotic  barbarian/  or  '  idiotic 
barbarians  '  ?  Because  it  makes  all  the  difference." 

"  Barbarians.  Plural.  Don't  be  a  fool,  and 
come  down." 

Thereupon  the  lady  came  back  as  far  as  the  door, 
but  seemed  to  waver  in  concession,  for  she  made 
reservations. 

"  I  am  not  coming  down  because  of  anything," 
she  said,  "  but  only  to  remind  you  that  that  Miss 
Upwell  was  to  come  some  time  to  see  the  picture, 
and  I  think  that's  her." 

"  What's  her  ?     I  don't  hear  anyone  at  the  door." 

"  It's  no  use  gaping  out  of  the  front  window. 
You  know  quite  well  what  I  mean.  That's  her  in 
the  carriage,  gone  to  the  Macnivensons'  by  mistake 
for  us,  as  people  always  do  and  always  will,  Reginald, 
until  Mrs.  Verity  gets  the  Borough  Council  to 
change  the  numbers.  '  Thirty-seven  A '  is  a  mere 
mockery." 

Mr.  Aiken  came  out  of  the  Studio,  and  went  up 
to  the  side-window  on  the  landing,  commanding  a 
view  of  the  street  in  which  thirty-seven  A  stood,  his 
own  tenancy  being  in  the  upper  half  of  a  corner 
house.  "  That's  her,"  said  he.  "  And  a  young 
swell.  Sweetheart,  p'raps!  Smart  set,  they  look. 
But,  I  say,  Mrs.  Hay  ..." 


16  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  Do  come  away  from  the  window.  They'll  see 
you,  and  it  looks  so  bad.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  What  the  Devil  am  I  to  do  ?  I  can't  let  her  see 
the  picture  in  that  state." 

"  Nonsense !  Just  wipe  the  mess  off.  You  are 
such  a  fidget,  Eeginald." 

But  the  Artist  could  not  have  his  work  treated 
thus  lightly.  The  girl  must  say  he  had  been  called 
away  on  important  business.  It  was  absolutely 
impossible  to  let  that  picture  be  seen  in  its  present 
state.  And  it  would  take  over  an  hour  to  make  it 
fit  to  be  seen.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course,  it  was  difficult, 
Mr.  Aiken  admitted,  to  think  what  to  say,  all  in  a 
hurry!  He  thought  very  hard,  and  twice  said, 
"  I've  an  idea.  Look  here !  "  And  his  wife  said, 
"  Well  ?  "  But  nothing  came  of  it.  Then  he  said, 
"  Anyhow,  she  mustn't  come  into  the  Studio. 
That's  flat !  .  .  . "  But  when,  in  answer  to  inquiry 
as  to  how  the  difficulty  of  the  position  should  be 
met,  he  riposted  brusquely,  "  Who's  to  see  her  ? 
Why,  you!" — Mrs.  Aiken  said,  in  the  most  uncom- 
promising way,  No — that  she  wouldn't;  the  idea! 
If  there  were  to  be  any  fibs  told,  her  husband  must 
tell  them  himself,  and  not  put  them  off  on  her.  It 
was  unmanly  cowardice.  Let  him  tell  his  own  fibs. 

But  the  colloquy,  which  threatened  to  become 
heated,  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Warmth  of  feeling  had  to  give  way  before  necessity 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  17 

for  action.  Broadly  speaking,  this  took  the  form, 
of  affectation,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aiken,  of 
a  remoteness  from  the  Studio  not  favoured  by  the 
resources  of  their  premises,  and,  on  the  part  of 
Sairah,  of  a  dramatic  effort  to  which  she  proved  al- 
together unequal.  She  was  instructed  to  say  that  she 
didn't  know  if  her  master  was  at  home,  but  would 
see,  if  the  lady  and  gentleman  would  walk  into  the 
Studio.  She  was  then  to  convey  an  impression  of 
passing  through  perspectives  of  corridors,  and  open- 
ing doors  respectfully,  and  meeting  with  many  fail- 
ures, but  succeeding  in  the  end  in  running  her  quarry 
down  in  some  boudoir  or  private  chapel.  She  failed, 
and  was  audible  to  the  visitors  in  the  Studio,  within 
a  few  feet  of  its  door,  which  didn't  'asp,  unless 
pulled  to  sharp.  She  had  not  pulled  it  to  sharp. 
And  her  words  were  not  well  chosen : — "  I  said  to  'em 
to  set  down  till  you  come,  and  you  wouldn't  be  a 
minute."  No  more  they  were;  but  there  are  more 
ways  than  one  of  not  being  a  minute,  and  they  chose 
the  one  most  illustrative — to  Mrs.  Aiken's  mind — 
of  the  frequency  of  unexpected  visits  from  the  elite. 
"  Don't  go  rushing  in,  as  if  no  one  ever  came !  "  said 
she  to  her  husband. 

The  young  lady  and  gentleman  did  not  sit  down, 
but  walked  about  the  room,  the  former  examining 
its  contents.  The  gentleman,  who  was  palpably  an 
officer  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  neglected  the  Fine 


18  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Arts,  in  favour  of  the  lady,  whom  he  may  be  said 
to  have  gloated  over  at  a  respectful  distance.  But 
he  expressed  himself  to  the  effect  that  this  was  an 
awful  lark,  straining  metaphor  severely.  The  young 
lady,  whose  beauty  had  made  Sairah's  head  reel, 
said,  "  Yes — it's  fun,"  more  temperately.  But 
both  looked  blooming  and  optimistic,  and  ready  to 
recognize  awful  larks  and  fun  in  almost  any  com- 
bination of  circumstances. 

The  first  instinct  of  visitors  to  a  Studio  is  to  find 
some  way  of  avoiding  looking  at  the  pictures.  A 
good  method  towards  success  in  this  object  is  to 
lean  back  and  peep  over  all  the  canvases  with  their 
faces  to  the  wall,  and  examine  all  the  sketch-books, 
in  search  of  what  really  interests  you  so  much  more 
than  finished  work;  to  wit,  the  first  ideas  of  the 
Artist,  fresh  from  his  brain — incomplete,  of  course, 
but  full  of  an  indefinable  something.  They  are 
himself,  you  see!  But  they  spoil  your  new  gloves, 
and  perhaps  you  are  going  on  to  Hurlingham. 
These  young  people  were;  and  that,  no  doubt,  was 
why  the  young  lady  went  no  further  in  her  re- 
searches than  to  discover  the  rich  grimy  quality  of 
the  dirt  they  compelled  her  to  wallow  in.  It 
repulsed  her,  and  she  had  to  fall  back  on  the  easels 
and  their  burdens. 

They  glanced  at  "  Diana  and  Actseon,"  unfinished, 
the  Artist's  capo  d'opera  at  this  date,  and  appeared 


A  LIKELY  STORY  19- 

embarrassed    for    a    moment,    but    conscious    that 
something  is  still  due  to  High  Art. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  the  drawing's  fine,  or  the 
tone,  or  something?  You're  not  doing  your  duty,. 
Jack."  Thus  spoke  the  young  lady,  who  presently, 
to  the  relief  of  both,  found  an  enthusiasm.  "  She's 
perfectly  lovely!  But  is  she  Mr.  Malkin's  work? 
She  isn't — she's  our  picture!  She's  Early  Italian." 
She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  with  delight. 
Oh  dear! — how  pretty  she  looked,  transfixed,  as  it 
were,  with  her  lips  apart  opposite  to  the  picture 
Sairah  had  been  attending  to ! 

The  young  man  took  his  eyes  off  her  to  glance  at 
the  picture,  then  put  them  back  again.  "  I  don't 
dislike  'em  Early  Italian,"  he  said.  But  he  wasn't 
paying  proper  attention;  and,  besides,  Sairah's  little 
essay  towards  picture-restoration  had  caught  his  pass- 
ing glance.  "  What's  all  that  woolly  mess  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Picture-cleaning,  of  course,"  said  the  lady- 
"Mr.  Malthus  knows  what  he's  about — at  least,  I 
suppose  so.  ...  Oh,  here  he  is ! "  Now  this 
young  lady  ought  to  have  made  herself  mistress  of 
the  Artist's  real  name  before  visiting  his  Studio. 
Not  having  done  so,  his  sudden  appearance — he  had 
taken  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  rushed  in  as  though 
at  most  very  few  people  ever  came — was  a  little 
embarrassing  to  her,  especially  as  he  said  correc- 
tively, "  Aiken."  Thereon  the  young  lady  said  she 


20  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

meant  Aiken,  which  may  have  been  true,  or  not. 
However,  she  got  the  conversation  on  a  sound 
footing  by  a  little  bit  of  truthfulness.  "  I  was  just 
saying  to  Captain  Calverley  that  the  '  woolly  mess,' 
as  he  is  pleased  to  call  it,  is  what  you  are  doing  to 
the  picture.  Isn't  it,  now  ?  " 

Mr.  Aiken  satisfied  his  conscience  cleverly.  He 
smiled  in  a  superior  way — as  a  master  smiles  at  one 
that  is  not  of  his  school — and  said  merely,  "  Some- 
thing of  the  kind." 

This  young  lady,  Madeline  Upwell,  had  never  been 
in  a  real  picture-restorer's  studio  before,  and  could 
not  presume  to  be  questioning  anything,  or  taking 
exceptions.  So  she  accepted  Sairah's  handiwork 
as  technical  skill  of  a  high  order.  And  Mr.  Aiken, 
his  conscience  at  ease  at  having  avoided  fibs,  which 
so  often  lead  to  embarrassments,  felt  quite  in  high 
spirits,  and  could  give  himself  airs  about  his  knowl- 
edge of  Early  Italian  Art. 

"  A  fine  picture !  "  said  he.  "  But  not  a  Bron- 
zino." 

Miss  Upwell  looked  dejected,  and  said,  "  Oh 
dear! — isn't  it?  Ought  it  to  be?"  Captain 
Calverley  said,  "  P'raps  it's  by  somebody  else." 
But  he  was  evidently  only  making  conversation. 
And  Miss  Upwell  said  to  him,  "  Jack,  you  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  Be  quiet!  "  Whereupon 
Captain  Calverley  was  quiet.  He  was  very  good 


A  LIKELY  STORY  21 

and  docile,  and  no  wonder ;  for  the  fact  is,  his  inner 
soul  purred  like  a  cat  whenever  this  young  lady 
addressed  him  by  name. 

Mr.  Aiken  went  on  to  declare  his  own  belief  about 
the  authorship  in  question.  His  opinion  was  of 
less  than  no  value,  but  he  gave  it  for  what  it  was 
worth.  The  picture  was  palpably  the  work  of 
Mozzo  Vecchio,  or  his  son  Cippo — probably  the 
latter,  who  was  really  the  finer  artist  of  the  two,  in 
spite  of  Jupp.  As  to  the  identity  of  the  portrait, 
he  did  not  agree  with  any  of  the  theories  about  it. 
He  then,  receiving  well-bred  encouragement  to 
proceed  from  his  hearers,  threw  himself  into  a  com- 
plete exposition  of  his  views — although  he  fre- 
quently dwelt  upon  their  insignificance  and  his  own 
— with  such  enthusiasm  that  it  was  with  a  wrench 
to  his  treatment  of  the  subject  that  he  became  aware 
that  his  wife  had  come  into  the  room  and  was  ex- 
pecting to  be  taken  notice  of,  venomously.  At  the 
same  time  it  dawned  on  him  that  his  visitors  had 
assumed  the  appearance  of  awaiting  formal  intro- 
duction. The  method  of  indicating  this  is  not 
exactly  like  endeavouring  to  detect  a  smell  of  gas, 
nor  giving  up  a  conundrum  and  waiting  for  the 
answer,  nor  standing  quite  still  to  try  on,  nor  any 
particular  passage  in  fielding  at  cricket;  but  there 
may  be  a  little  of  each  in  it.  Only,  you  mustn't 
speak  on  any  account — mind  that!  You  may  say 


22  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  er " — if  that  indicates  the  smallest  speakable 
section  of  a  syllable — as  a  friendly  lead  to  the  intro- 
ducer. And  it  is  well  to  indicate,  if  you  can,  how 
sweet  your  disposition  will  be  towards  the  other 
party  when  the  introducer  has  taken  action,  like 
the  Treasury.  But  the  magic  words  must  be 
spoken. 

Miss  Upwell  was  beginning  to  feel  a  spirit  of 
dhauvinism  rising  in  her  heart,  that  might  in  time 
have  become  "  Is  this  Mrs.  Aiken  ?  "  with  a  certain 
gush  of  provisional  joy,  when  the  gentleman  per- 
ceived his  neglect,  and  said,  "  Ah — oh ! — my  wife, 
of  course !  Beg  pardon !  "  On  which  Mrs.  Aiken 
said,  "  You  must  forgive  my  husband,"  with  an 
air  of  spacious  condescension,  and  the  incident 
ended  curiously  by  a  kind  of  alliance  between  the 
two  ladies  against  the  social  blunders  of  male  man- 
kind. 

But  the  Artist's  wife  declined  to  fall  in  with 
current  opinion  about  the  picture.  "  I  suppose  it's 
very  beautiful,  and  all  that,"  said  she.  "  Only 
don't  ask  me  to  admire  it!  I  never  have  liked 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  never  shall  like  it."  She 
went  on  to  say  the  same  thing  more  frequently 
than  public  interest  in  her  decisions  appeared  to 
•warrant. 

The  young  lady  said,  in  a  rather  plaintive,  dis- 
appointed tone,  "  But  is  it  that  sort  of  thing  ? " 


A  LIKELY  STORY  23 

She  had  evidently  fallen  in  love  with  the  picture, 
and  while  not  prepared  to  deny  that  sorts  of  things 
existed  which  half-length  portraits  oughtn't  to  be, 
was  very  reluctant  to  have  a  new-found  idol  pitch- 
forked into  their  category. 

The  Artist  said,  "  What  the  dooce  you  mean, 
Euphemia,  I'm  blest  if  I  know !  "  He  looked  like 
an  Artist  who  wished  his  wife  hadn't  come  into  his 
room  when  visitors  were  there. 

The  Captain  said,  "  What  sort  of  thing  2  I  don't 
see  that  she's  any  sort  at  all.  Thundering  pretty 
sort,  anyhow !  " 

Thereupon  the  Artist's  wife  said,  "  I  suppose 
I'm  not  to  speak,"  and  showed  symptoms  of  a 
dangerous  and  threatening  self-subordination.  The 
lady  visitor,  perceiving  danger  ahead,  with  great 
tact  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  but  I  do  know  so  exactly 
what  Mrs.  Aiken  means."  She  didn't  know,  the 
least  in  the  world.  But  what  did  that  matter? 
She  went  on  to  dwell  on  the  beauty  of  the  portrait, 
saying  that  she  should  persuade  Pupsey  to  have  it 
over  the  library  chimneypiece  and  take  away  that 
dreary  old  Kneller  woman.  It  was  the  best  light 
in  the  whole  place. 

But  her  sweetly  meant  effort  to  soothe  away  the 
paroxysm  of  propriety  which  seemed  to  have  seized 
upon  the  lady  of  the  house  was  destined  to  fail,  for 
the  husband  of  the  latter  must  needs  put  his  word  in, 


24  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

saying,  "  I  don't  see  any  ground  for  it.  Never 
shall."  This  occasioned  an  intensification  of  his 
wife's  attitude,  shown  by  a  particular  form  of  silence, 
and  an  underspeech  to  Miss  Upwell,  as  to  one  who 
would  understand,  "  No  ground  ? — with  those  arms 
and  shoulders!  And  look  at  her  open  throat — oh, 
the  whole  thing!  "  which  elicited  a  sympathetic 
sound,  meant  to  mean  anything.  But  the  young 
lady  was  only  being  civil.  Because  she  had  really 
no  sympathy  whatever  with  this  Mrs.  What's-her- 
name,  and  spoke  with  severity  of  her  afterwards, 
under  that  designation.  At  the  moment,  however, 
she  made  no  protest  beyond  an  expression  of  rap- 
turous admiration  for  the  portrait,  saying  it  was 
the  most  fascinating  head  she  had  ever  seen  in  a 
picture.  And  as  for  the  arms  and  open  throat,  they 
were  simply  ducky.  The  Artist's  wife  could  find 
nothing  to  contradict  flatly  in  this,  and  had  to  con- 
tent herself  with,  "  Oh  yes,  the  beauty's  undeniable. 
But  that  was  how  they  did  it." 

The  young  officer  appeared  to  want  to  say  some- 
thing, but  to  be  diffident.  A  nod  of  encouragement 
from  Miss  Upwell  produced,  "  Why,  I  was  going  to 
say — wasn't  it  awfully  jolly  of  'em  to  do  it  that 
way  ? "  The  speaker  coloured  slightly,  but  when 
the  young  lady  said,  "  Bravo,  Jack !  I'm  on  your 
side,"  he  looked  happy  and  reinstated. 

But  when  could  the  picture  be  finished  and  be 


A  LIKELY  STORY  25 

sent  to  Surley  Stakes  ?  The  young  lady  would  never 
be  happy  till  it  was  safe  there,  now  she  had  seen  it. 
Would  Mr.  Aiken  get  it  done  in  a  week  ?  .  .  .  no  ? 
— then  in  a  fortnight?  The  Artist  smiled  in  a  su- 
perior way,  from  within  the  panoply  of  his  mystery, 
and  intimated  that  at  least  a  month  would  be  re- 
quired; and,  indeed,  to  do  justice  to  so  important  a 
job,  he  would  much  rather  have  said  six  weeks.  He 
hoped,  however,  that  Miss  Upwell  would  be  content 
with  his  assurance  that  he  would  do  his  best. 

Miss  Upwell  would  not  be  at  all  content.  Still, 
she  would  accept  the  inevitable.  How  could  she 
do  otherwise,  with  Captain  Calverley's  sisters  wait- 
ing for  them  at  Hurlingham  ? 

"  Quite  up  to  date ! "  was  the  verdict  of  the 
Artist's  wife,  as  soon  as  her  guest  was  out  of 
hearing. 

"  Who  ? "  said  the  Artist.  Then,  as  one  who 
steps  down  from  conversation  to  communication, 
he  added  in  business  tones :  "  I  say,  Euphemia,  I 
shall  have  to  run  this  all  down  with  turps  before 
the  copal  hardens,  and  I  really  must  give  my  mind 
to  it.  You  had  better  hook  it." 

"  I'm  going  directly.  But  it's  easy  to  say 
'who?'" 

"  Oh,  I  say,  do  hook  it !  I  can't  attend  to  you 
and  this  at  the  same  time." 


26  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  I'm  going.  But  it  is  easy  to  say  '  who  ? '  And 
you  know  it's  easy." 

The  Artist,  who  was  coquetting  with  one  of  those 
nice  little  corkscrews  that  bloom  on  Artists'  bottles, 
became  impatient.  "  Wha-a-aw£  is  it  you're  going 
on  about  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  exasperated.  "  Can't  you 
leave  the  girl  alone,  and  hook  it  ? " 

"  I  can  leave  the  room,"  said  his  wife  temperately, 
"  and  am  doing  so.  But  you  see  you  knew  per- 
fectly well  who,  all  along !  "  Even  so  the  Japanese 
wrestler,  who  has  got  a  certainty,  is  temperance  it- 
self towards  his  victim,  who  writhes  in  vain. 

Why  on  earth  could  not  the  gentleman  leave  the 
lady  to  go  her  own  way,  and  attend  to  his  work? 
He  couldn't;  and  must  needs  fan  the  fires  of  an 
incipient  wrangle  that  would  have  burned  down,  left 
to  itself.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,  Euphemia,"  said  he. 
"  Can't  you  answer  my  question  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  '  quite  up  to  date  '  ?  " 

Now,  Mrs.  Aiken  had  a  much  better  memory  than 
her  husband.  "  Because,"  she  replied,  dexterously 
seizing  on  his  weak  point,  "  you  never  asked  any  such 
question,  Reginald.  If  you  had  asked  me  to  tell 
you  what  I  meant  by  '  quite  up  to  date,'  I  should 
have  told  you  what  I  meant  by  '  quite  up  to  date/ 
But  I  shall  not  tell  you  now,  Reginald,  because  it 
is  worse  than  ridiculous  for  you  to  pretend  you  do 
not  know  the  meaning  of  e  quite  up  to  date,'  when 


A  LIKELY  STORY  27 

it  is  not  only  transparently  on  the  surface,  but 
obvious.  Ask  anyone.  Ask  my  Aunt  Priscilla. 
Ask  Mrs.  Verity."  The  lady  had  much  better  have 
stopped  here.  But  she  wished  to  class  her  land- 
lady amongst  the  lower  intelligences,  so  she  must 
needs  add,  somewhat  in  the  rear  of  her  enumeration, 
in  a  quick  sotto  voce,  "  Ask  the  girl  Sairah,  for  that 
matter !  " 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  her  husband  curtly. 

"  You  heard  what  I  said." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  heard  what  you  said.  Well — suppose 
I  ask  the  girl  Sairah !  " 

"  Reginald !  If  you  are  determined  to  make 
yourself  and  your  wife  ridiculous,  I  shall  go.  I  do 
think  that,  even  if  you  have  no  common  sense,  you 
might  have  a  little  good  feeling.  The  girl  Sairah! 
The  idea !  "  She  collected  herself  a  little  more — 
some  wandering  scraps  were  out  of  bounds — and 
went  almost  away,  just  listening  back  on  the  stair- 
case landing. 

Now,  although  an  impish  intention  may  have 
flickered  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken,  he  cer- 
tainly had  no  definite  idea  of  catechizing  the  girl 
Sairah  about  the  phrase  under  discussion  when  he 
rang  the  bell  for  her  and  summoned  her  to  the 
Studio.  But  his  wife  having  taken  him  au  serieux 
instead  of  laughing  at  his  absurdity,  the  impish 
intention  flared  up,  and  had  not  time  to  die  down 


28  A  LIKELY  STORY 

before  Sairah  answered  the  bell.  Would  it  have 
done  so  if  he  had  not  been  conscious  that  his  wife 
was  still  standing  at  pause  on  the  staircase  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  outcome  ? 

So,  when  Sairah  lurched  into  his  sanctum,  asking 
whether  he  rang — not  without  suggestion  that 
offence  would  be  given  by  an  affirmative  answer — 
his  real  intention  in  summoning  the  damsel  wavered 
at  the  instigation  of  the  spirit  of  mischief  that  had 
momentary  possession  of  him;  and  instead  of  blow- 
ing her  up  roundly  for  damaging  his  picture,  he 
actually  must  needs  ask  her  the  very  question  his 
wife  had  said  "  The  idea !  "  about.  He  spoke  loud, 
that  his  speech  should  reach  that  lady's  listening 
ears. 

"  Yes,  Sairah :  I  rang  for  you.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  .  .  .  ? "  He  paused  a  moment,  to 
overhear,  if  possible,  some  result  of  his  words  in  the 
passage. 

"  It's  nothin'  along  o'  me.  /  ain't  done  nothin'." 
A  brief  sketch  of  a  blameless  life,  implied  in  these 
words,  seemed  to  Sairah  the  safest  policy.  She 
thought  she  was  going  to  be  indicted  for  the  ruin 
of  the  picture. 

"  Shut  up,  Sairah !  "  said  the  Artist,  and  listened. 
Of  course,  he  was  doing  this,  you  see,  to  plague  his 
wife.  But  he  heard  nothing,  being  nevertheless 
mysteriously  aware  that  Mrs.  Aiken  was  still  on  the 


A  LIKELY  STORY  29 

landing  above,  taking  mental  notes  of  what  she 
overheard.  So  he  pursued  his  inquiry,  regarding 
Sairah  as  a  mere  lay-figure  of  use  in  practical  joking. 
"  I  expect  you  know  the  meaning  of  l  up  to  date/ 
Sairah,"  said  he,  and  listened.  But  no  sign  came 
from  without.  If  the  ears  this  pleasantry  was  in- 
tended to  reach  were  still  there,  their  owner  was 
storing  up  retribution  for  its  author  in  silence. 

It  was  but  natural  that  this  young  woman  Sairah, 
having  no  information  on  any  topic  whatever — for 
this  condition  soon  asserts  itself  in  young  women  of 
her  class  after  their  Board-School  erudition  has  had 
time  to  die  a  natural  death — should  be  apt  to 
ascribe  sinister  meanings  to  things  she  did  not  under- 
stand. And  in  this  case  none  the  less  for  the  air 
and  aspect  of  the  speaker,  which,  while  it  really  was 
open  to  the  misinterpretation  that  it  was  intended 
to  convey  insinuating  waggery  to  the  person  ad- 
dressed, had  only  reference  to  the  enjoyment  Mr. 
Aiken  had,  or  was  proposing  to  himself,  from  a  mild 
joke  perpetrated  at  his  wife's  expense.  However, 
the  young  woman  was  not  going  to  fly  out — an 
action  akin  to  the  showing  of  a  proper  spirit — with- 
out an  absolute  certainty  of  the  point  to  be  flown 
out  about.  Therefore  Sairah  said  briefly,  "  Ask 
your  parding !  "  Briefly,  but  with  a  slight  asperity. 

The  Artist,  though  he  was  in  some  doubt  whether 
his  jest  was  worth  proceeding  with,  was  too  far  com- 


30  A  LIKELY  STORY 

mitted  to  retreat.  With  his  wife  listening  on  the 
stairs,  was  he  not  bound  to  pursue  his  inquiry? 
Obviously  he  must  do  so,  or  run  the  risk  of  being 
twitted  with  his  indecision  by  that  lady  later  on. 
So  he  said,  with  effrontery,  "  Your  mistress  says 
you  can  tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  expression  '  up 
to  date/  Sairah." 

Sairah  turned  purple.  "  Well,  I  never !  "  said 
she.  "  Mrs.  Aching  to  say  that  of  a  respectable 
girl!" 

Mr.  Aiken  became  uncomfortable,  as  Sairah  turned 
purple.  He  began  to  perceive  that  his  jest  was  a 
very  stupid  one.  As  Sairah  turned  purpler,  he 
became  more  uncomfortable  still.  A  panic-stricken 
review  of  possible  ways  out  of  the  difficulty  started 
in  his  mind,  but  soon  stopped  for  want  of  materials. 
Explanation — cajolery — severe  transition  to  another 
topic — he  thought  of  all  three.  The  first  was  simply 
impossible  to  reasoning  faculties  like  Sairah's.  The 
second  was  out  of  Mr.  Aiken's  line.  If  the  girl  had 
been  a  model  now!  .  .  .  And  who  can  say  that 
then  it  might  not  have  been  ticklish  work — yes! — 
even  with  the  strong  personal  vanity  of  that  in- 
scrutable class  to  appeal  to?  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  the  third,  and  Mr.  Aiken's  confidence  in 
it  was  very  weak.  Something  had  to  be  done, 
though,  with  Sairah's  colour  crescendo,  and  probably 
Mrs.  Hay  outside  the  door;  that  was  the  image  his 


A  LIKELY  STORY  31 

mind  supplied.  He  felt  like  an  ill-furnished  storm- 
ing-party,  a  forlorn  hope  in  want  of  a  ladder,  as  he 
said,  "  There — never  mind  that  now !  You've  been 
meddling  with  this  picture.  You  know  you  have. 
Look  here!  "  Had  he  been  a  good  tactician,  he 
would  have  affected  sudden  detection  of  the  injury 
to  the  picture.  But  he  lost  the  opportunity. 

Sairah  held  the  strong  position  of  an  Injured 
Woman.  If  she  was  to  have  the  sack,  she  much 
preferred  to  have  it  "on  her  own  " — to  wrest  it,  as 
it  were,  from  a  grasp  unwilling  to  surrender  it — 
rather  than  to  have  it  forced  upon  her  unwilling 
acceptance,  with  a  month's  notice  and  a  character 
for  Vandalism.  So  she  repeated,  as  one  still  rigid 
with  amazement,  "  Mrs.  Aching  to  say  that  of  a 
respectable  girl !  "  and  remained  paralyzed,  in  dumb 
show. 

Mr.  Aiken  perceived  with  chagrin  that  he  might 
have  saved  the  situation  by,  "  What's  this  horrible 
mess  on  the  picture  ?  You've  been  touching  this !  " 
and  a  drowning  storm  of  indignation  to  follow.  It 
was  too  late  now.  He  had  to  accept  his  task  as 
Destiny  set  it,  and  he  cut  a  very  poor  figure  over  it 
— was  quite  outclassed  by  Sairah.  He  could 
actually  manage  nothing  better  than,  "  Do  let  that 
alone,  girl !  I  tell  you  it  was  foolery.  ...  I  tell 
you  it  was  a  joke.  Look  here  at  this  picture — the 
mischief  you've  done  it.  You  know  you  did  it !  " 


32  A  LIKELY  STORY 

To  which  Sairah  thus : — "  Ho,  it's  easy  gettin' 
out  of  it  that  way,  Mr.  Aching.  Not  but  what  I 
have  always  known  you  for  the  gentleman — I  will 
say  that.  But  such  a  thing  to  say!  If  I'd  a  been 
Missis,  I  should  have  shrank !  " 

The  Artist  felt  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  grapple  with  the  situation.  He  shouted  at  the 
indignant  young  woman,  "  Don't  be  such  a  con- 
founded idiot,  girl!  I  mean,  don't  be  such  an 
insufferable  goose.  I  tell  you,  you're  under  a  com- 
plete misconception.  Nobody's  ever  said  anything 
against  you.  Nobody's  said  a  word  against  your 
confounded  character,  and  be  hanged  to  it!  Do 
have  a  little  common  sense!  A  young  woman  of 
your  age  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  be  such  a  fool." 

But  Sairah's  entrenchments  were  strengthened, 
if  anything.  "  It's  easy  calling  fool,"  said  she. 
"  And  as  for  saying  against,  who's  using  expressions, 
and  passing  off  remarks  now  ? "  Controversial 
opponents  incapable  of  understanding  anything 
whatever  are  harder  to  refute  than  the  shrewdest 
intellects.  Mr.  Aiken  felt  that  Sairah  was  oak  and 
triple  brass  against  logical  conviction.  Explanation 
only  made  matters  worse. 

A  vague  desperate  idea  of  summoning  his  wife 
and  accusing  Sairah  of  intoxication,  as  a  sort  of 
universal  solvent,  crossed  his  mind;  and  he  actually 
went  so  far  as  to  look  out  into  the  passage  for  her, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  33 

but  only  to  find  that  she  had  vanished  for  the 
moment.  Coming  back,  he  assumed  a  sudden 
decisive  tone,  saying,  "  There — that'll  do,  Sairah ! 
Now  go."  But  Sairah  wasn't  going  to  give  in,  evi- 
dently, and  he  added,  "  I  mean,  that's  enough !  " 

Whether  it  was  or  wasn't,  Sairah  showed  no  signs 
of  concession.  She  was  going,  no  fear!  She  was 
going — ho  yes! — she  was  going.  She  said  she  was 
going  so  often  that  Mr.  Aiken  said  at  last,  "  Well, 
go ! "  But  when  the  young  woman  began  to  go 
vengefully,  as  it  were — even  as  a  quadruped  sud- 
denly stung  by  an  ill-deserved  whip — he  inconse- 
quently  exclaimed,  "Stop!"  For  a  fell  purpose 
had  been  visible  in  her  manner.  What,  he  asked, 
was  she  going  to  do  ? 

What  was  she  going  to  do?  Oh  yes! — it  was 
easy  asking  questions.  But  the  answer  would  reach 
Mr.  Aiken  in  due  course.  Nevertheless,  if  he  wanted 
to  know,  she  would  be  generous  and  tell  him.  She 
wasn't  an  underhand  girl,  like  the  majority  of  her 
sex  at  her  age.  Mean  concealments  were  foreign  to 
her  nature.  She  was  going  straight  to  Mrs.  Aching 
to  give  a  month's  warning,  and  you  might  summing 
in  the  police  to  search  her  box.  All  should  be  above- 
board,  as  had  been  the  case  in  her  family  for  genera- 
tions past,  and  she  never  had  experienced  such  treat- 
ment all  the  places  she'd  been  in,  nor  yet  expected 
to  it. 


34  A  LIKELY  STORY 

It  was  then  that  this  Artist  made  a  serious  error 
of  judgment.  He  would  have  done  much  more 
wisely  to  allow  this  stupid  maid-of-all-work  to  go 
away  and  attend  to  some  of  it  in  the  kitchen,  while 
he  looked  after  his  own.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he, 
being  seriously  alarmed  at  the  possible  domestic 
consequences  of  his  very  imperfectly  thought  out 
joke — for  he  knew  his  wife  accounted  the  finding  of 
a  new  handmaid  life's  greatest  calamity — must  needs 
make  an  ill-advised  attempt  to  calm  the  troubled 
waters  on  the  same  line  that  he  would  have  adopted, 
at  any  rate  in  his  Bohemian  days,  with  Miss  de 
Lancey  or  Miss  Montmorency — these  names  are 
chosen  at  random — whose  professional  beauty  as 
models  did  not  prevent  their  suffering,  now  and 
again,  from  tantrums.  And  cajolery,  of  the  class 
otherwise  known  as  blarney,  might  have  smoothed 
over  the  incident,  and  the  whole  thing  have  been 
forgotten,  if  bad  luck  had  not,  just  at  this  moment, 
brought  back  to  the  Studio  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  who  had  only  been  attracted  by  a  noise  in 
the  street  to  look  out  at  a  front-window.  She, 
coming  unheard  within  hearing,  not  only  was  aware 
of  interchanges  of  unusual  amiability  between 
Reginald  and  that  horrible  girl  Sairah,  but  was  just 
in  time  to  hear  the  latter  say,  "  You  keep  your 
'ands  off  of  me  now,  Mr.  Aching !  "  without  any 
apparent  intention  of  being  taken  at  her  word. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  35 

And,  further,  that  the  odious  minx  brazened  it  out, 
leaving  the  room  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  before 
the  gentleman's  offended  wife  could  find  words  to 
express  her  indignation.  At  least,  so  this  lady  told 
her  Aunt  Priscilla  that  evening,  in  an  interview 
from  which  we  have  just  borrowed  some  telling 
phrases. 

As  for  her  profligate  husband,  it  came  out  in  the 
same  interview  that  he  looked  "  sheepish  to  a 
degree,  and  well  he  might."  He  had  tried  to  cook 
up  a  sort  of  explanation — "  oh  yes !  a  sort " — which 
was  no  doubt  an  attempt  on  the  misguided  man's 
part  to  tell  the  truth.  But  we  have  seen  that  he 
was  the  last  person  to  succeed  in  such  an  enterprise; 
and,  indeed,  self-exculpation  is  tough  work,  even 
for  the  guiltless.  Fancy  the  fingers  of  reproachful 
virtue  directed  at  you  from  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass. And  suppose,  to  make  matters  worse,  you 
had  committed  something — not  a  crime,  you  would 
never  do  that;  but  something  or  other  of  a  com- 
mittable  nature — what  on  earth  could  you  do  but 
look  sheepish  to  some  degree  or  other?  Unless, 
indeed,  you  were  a  minx,  and  could  brazen  it  outr 
like  that  gurl. 

Such  a  ridiculous  and  vulgar  incident  would  not 
be  worth  so  much  description,  but  that,  like  other 
things  of  the  same  sort,  it  led  to  serious  conse- 


36  A  LIKELY  STORY 

quences.  A  storm  occurred  in  what  had  hitherto 
been  a  haven  of  domestic  peace,  and  the  Artist's 
wife  carried  out  her  threat,  this  time,  of  a  visit  to 
her  Aunt  Priscilla.  That  good  lady,  being  a  spinster 
of  very  limited  experience,  but  anxious  to  make  it 
seem  a  wide  one,  dwelt  upon  her  knowledge  of  man- 
kind and  its  evil  ways,  and  the  hopelessness  of  un- 
divided possession  thereof  by  womankind.  She  had 
told  her  niece  "  what  it  was  going  to  be,"  when  she 
first  learned  that  Mr.  Aiken  was  an  Artist.  She 
repeated  what  she  had  said  before,  that  Artists' 
wives  had  no  idea  what  was  going  on  under  their 
eyes.  If  they  had,  Artists  would  very  soon  be  un- 
provided with  the  raw  material  of  proper  infidelity. 
They  would  have  no  wives,  and  would  go  on  like  in 
Paris.  This  tale  is  absolutely  irresponsible  for  Miss 
Priscilla's  informants;  it  only  reports  her  words. 

Now,  Mrs.  Euphemia  Aiken,  in  spite  of  a  severe 
ruction  with  her  husband,  had  really  not  consciously 
imputed  to  him  any  transgression  of  a  serious  nature 
when — as  that  gentleman  worded  it — she  "  flounced 
away  "  to  her  Aunt  Priscilla  with  an  angry  report 
of  how  Reginald  had  insulted  her.  She  had  much 
too  high  an  opinion  of  him  to  form,  on  her  own 
account,  a  mental  version  of  his  conduct,  such  as 
the  one  her  excellent  Aunt  jumped  at,  in  pursuance 
of  the  establishment  of  a  vile  moral  character  for 
Artists  and  nephews-in-law  generally,  with  a  con- 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  37 

crete  foundation  in  the  case  of  an  Artist-nephew — a 
Centaur-like  combination  with  a  doubt  which  half 
was  which.  But  nothing  is  easier  than  to  convince 
any  human  creature  that  any  other  is  twice,  thrice, 
four  times  as  human  as  itself,  in  respect  of  what  is 
graceless  or  disgraceful — spot-stroke  barred,  of 
course ;  meaning  felony.  So  that  after  a  long  inter- 
view with  Aunt  Priscilla,  this  foolish  woman  cried 
herself  to  sleep,  having  accepted  the  good  lady's 
offered  hospitality,  and  was  next  morning  so  vigor- 
ously urged  to  do  scriptural  things  in  the  way  of 
forgiveness  and  submission  to  her  husband — so  Mil- 
tonic,  in  fact,  did  the  prevailing  atmosphere  become 
— that  she  naturally  sat  down  and  wrote  a  healthily 
furious  letter  to  him.  The  tale  may  surmise  that 
she  offered  him  Sairah  as  a  consolation  for  what  it 
knows  she  proposed — her  own  withdrawal  to  a 
voluntary  grass-widowhood.  For  she  flatly  refused 
to  return  to  her  deserted  hearth.  And,  indeed,  the 
poor  lady  may  have  felt  that  her  home  had  been 
soiled  and  desecrated.  But  it  was  not  only  her 
Aunt's  impudent  claim  to  superior  knowledge — she 
was  still  Miss  Priscilla  Bax,  and  of  irreproachable 
character — that  had  influenced  her,  but  the  recol- 
lection of  Sairah.  It  would  not  have  been  half  as 
bad  if  it  had  been  a  distinguished  young  lady  with 
a  swoop,  like  in  a  shiny  journal  she  subscribed  for 
quarterly.  But  Sairah !  That  gurl !  Visions  of 


38  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Sairah's  coiffure;  of  the  way  Sairah  appeared  to  be 
coming  through,  locally,  owing  to  previousness  on 
the  part  of  hooks  which  would  not  wait  for  their 
own  affinities,  but  annexed  the  very  first  eye  that 
appealed  to  them;  of  intolerable  stockings  she 
overlooked  large  holes  in,  however  careful  she  see 
to  'em  when  they  come  from  the  Wash;  of  her 
chronic  pocket-handkerchief — all  these  kept  floating 
before  her  eyes  and  exasperating  her  sense  of  insult 
and  degradation  past  endurance.  Perhaps  the 
worst  and  most  irritating  thought  was  the  extent  to 
which  she  had  stooped  to  supplement  this  maid's 
all-work  by  efforts  of  her  own,  without  which  their 
small  household  could  scarcely  have  lived  within 
its  limited  means.  No! — let  Reginald  grill  his  own 
chops  now,  or  find  another  Sairah! 

It  was  illustrative  of  the  unreality  of  this  ruction 
that  the  lady  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
Sairah  would  accept  the  sack  in  the  spirit  in  which 
it  was  given;  for  official  banishment  of  the  culprit 
was  her  last  act  on  leaving  the  house.  ~No  idea 
entered  her  head  that  her  husband  had  the  slightest 
personal  wish  to  retain  Sairah. 

As  for  him,  he  judged  it  best  to  pay  the  girl  her 
month's  wages  and  send  her  packing.  He  removed 
her  deposit  of  flue  from  the  picture-varnish,  and  in 
due  time  completed  the  job  and  sent  it  off  to  its 
destination.  He  fell  back  provisionally  on  his  old 


A  LIKELY  STORY  39 

bachelor  ways,  making  his  own  bed  and  slipping 
slowly  down  into  Chaos  at  home,  but  getting  well 
fed  either  by  his  friends  or  at  an  Italian  restaurant 
near  by — others  being  beyond  his  means  or  fraught 
with  garbage — and  writing  frequent  appeals  to  his 
wife  not  to  be  an  Ass,  but  to  come  back  and  be  jolly. 
She  opened  his  letters,  and  read  them,  and  more 
than  once  all  but  started  to  return  to  him — would 
have  done  so,  in  fact,  if  her  excellent  Aunt  had  not 
pointed  out,  each  time,  that  it  was  the  Woman's 
duty  to  forgive.  Which  she  might  have  gone  the 
length  of  accepting,  but  for  its  exasperating  sequel, 
"  and  submit  herself  to  her  husband." 

But  neither  he  nor  either  of  the  other  actors  in 
this  drama  had  the  slightest  idea  that  it  had  been 
witnessed  by  any  eyes  but  those  of  its  performers. 


CHAPTEK  II 

HOW  A  LITTLE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WAS  LEFT  ALONE  IN  A  LIBRARY, 
IN  FRONT  OF  THE  PICTURE  SAIRAH  HAD  ONLY  JUST  WIPED 
GENTLY.  HOW  HE  WOKE  UP  FROM  A  DREAM,  WHICH  WENT 
ON.  THE  LOQUACITY  OF  A  PICTURE,  AND  HOW  HE  POINTED 
OUT  TO  IT  ITS  UNREALITY.  THE  ARTIST'S  NAME.  THERE  WAS 
PLENTY  OF  TIME  TO  HEAR  MORE.  THE  EXACT  DATE  OF  AN- 
TIQUITY. THE  RATIONAL  WAY  OF  ACCOUNTING  FOR  IT 

OLD  Mr.  Pelly  is  the  little  grey-headed  wrinkled 
man  with  gold  spectacles  whom  you  have  seen  in  Lon- 
don bookshops  and  curio-stores  in  late  August  and 
early  September,  when  all  the  world  has  been  away ; 
the  little  old  man  who  has  seemed  to  you  to  have 
walked  out  of  the  last  century  but  one.  You  may 
not  have  observed  him  closely  enough  at  the  moment 
to  have  a  clear  recollection  of  details,  but  you  will 
have  retained  an  image  of  knee-breeches  and  silk 
stockings;  of  something  peculiar  in  the  way  of  a 
low-crowned  hat ;  of  a  watch  and  real  seals ;  of  a  gold 
snuff-box  you  would  have  liked  to  sell  for  your  own 
benefit;  and  of  an  ebony  walking-stick  with  a  silver 
head  and  a  little  silk  tassel.  On  thinking  this  old 
gentleman  over  you  will  probably  feel  sorry  you  did 
not  ask  him  a  question  about  Mazarine  Bibles  or 
Aldus  Manutius,  so  certain  were  you  he  would  not 

have  been  rude. 

40 


A  LIKELY  STORY  41 

But  you  did  not  do  so,  and  very  likely  he  went 
back  to  Grewceham,  in  Worcestershire,  where  he 
lives  by  himself,  and  you  lost  your  opportunity  that 
time.  However  that  may  be,  it  is  old  Mr.  Pelly  our 
story  has  to  do  with  now,  and  he  is  sitting  before  a 
wood-fire  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  little  dry  old 
thing  it  was  lighted  to  warm,  and  listening  to  the 
roaring  of  the  wind  in  the  big  chimney  of  the  library 
he  sits  in. 

But  it  is  not  his  own  library.  That  is  at  Grewce- 
ham, two  miles  off.  This  library  is  the  fine  old 
library  at  Surley  Stakes,  the  country-seat  of  Sir 
Stopleigh  Up  well,  M.P.,  whose  father  was  at  school 
with  Mr.  Pelly,  over  sixty  years  ago. 

Mr.  Pelly  is  stopping  at  "  The  Stakes,"  as  it  is 
called,  to  avoid  the  noise  and  fuss  of  the  little  market- 
town  during  an  election.  And  for  that  same  reason 
has  not  accompanied  Sir  Stopleigh  and  his  wife  and 
daughter  to  a  festivity  consequent  on  the  return  of 
that  very  old  Bart,  for  the  County.  They  will  be 
late  back;  so  Mr.  Pelly  can  do  no  better  than  sit  in 
the  firelight,  rejecting  lamps  and  candles,  and  think- 
ing over  the  translation  of  an  Italian  manuscript,  in 
fragments,  that  his  friend  Professor  Schrudengesser 
has  sent  him  from  Florence.  It  has  been  supposed 
to  have  some  connection  with  the  cinque-cento  por- 
trait by  an  unknown  Italian  artist  that  hangs  above 
the  fire-blaze.  And  this  portrait  is  the  one  the  story 


42  A  LIKELY  STORY 

saw  a  little  over  six  months  since,  in  the  atelier 
of  that  picture-cleaner,  who  managed  to  brew  a 
quarrel  with  his  wife  by  his  own  silliness  and  bad 
taste. 

It  is  only  dimly  visible  in  the  half-light,  but  Mr. 
Pelly  knows  it  is  there;  knows,  too,  that  its  eyes 
can  see  him,  if  a  picture's  eyes  can  see,  and  that  its 
laugh  is  there  on  the  parted  lips,  and  that  its 
jewelled  hand  is  wound  into  the  great  tress  of  gold 
that  falls  on  its  bosom.  For  it  is  a  portrait  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman,  such  as  Galuppi  Bal- 
dassare  wrote  music  about — you  know,  of  course! 
And  Mr.  Pelly,  as  he  thinks  what  it  will  look  like 
when  Stebbings,  the  butler,  or  his  myrmidons  bring 
in  lights,  feels  chilly  and  grown  old. 

But  Stebbings'  instructions  were  distinctly  not  to 
bring  in  lights  till  Mr.  Pelly  rang,  and  Mr.  Pelly 
didn't  ring.  He  drank  the  cup  of  coffee  Stebbings 
had  provided,  without  putting  any  Cognac  in  it,  and 
then  fell  into  a  doze.  When  he  awoke,  with  a  start 
and  a  sudden  conviction  that  he  indignantly  fought 
against  that  he  had  been  asleep,  it  was  to  find  that 
the  log-flare  had  worn  itself  out,  and  the  log  it  fed 
on  was  in  its  decrepitude.  Just  a  wavering  irreso- 
lute flame  on  its  saw-cut  end,  and  a  red  glow,  and 
that  was  all  it  had  left  behind. 

"  Who  spoke  ?  "  It  was  Mr.  Pelly  who  asked  the 
question.  But  no  one  had  spoken,  apparently. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  43 

Yet  he  would  have  sworn  that  he  heard  a  woman's 
voice  speaking  in  Italian.  How  funny  that  the 
associations  of  an  Italian  manuscript  should  creep 
into  his  dream! — that  was  all  Mr.  Pelly  thought 
about  it.  For  the  manuscript  was  almost  entirely 
English  rendering,  and  no  one  in  it,  so  far  as  he 
could  recollect,  had  said  as  this  voice  did,  "  Good- 
evening,  Signore !  "  It  was  a  dream !  He  polished 
his  spectacles  and  watched  the  glowing  log  that 
bridged  an  incandescent  valley,  and  wondered  what 
the  sudden  births  of  little  intense  white  light  could 
be  that  came  and  lived  on  nothing  and  vanished, 
unaccounted  for.  He  knew  Science  knew,  and 
would  ask  her,  next  time  they  met.  But,  for  now, 
he  would  be  content  to  sit  still,  and  keep  watch 
on  that  log.  It  must  break  across  the  middle 
soon,  and  collapse  into  the  valley  in  a  blaze  of 
sparks. 

Watching  a  fire,  without  other  light  in  the  room, 
is  fraught  with  sleep  to  one  who  has  lately  dined, 
even  if  he  has  a  pipe  or  cigar  in  his  mouth  to  burn 
him  awake  when  he  drops  it.  Much  more  so  to  a 
secure  non-smoker,  like  Mr.  Pelly.  Probably  he  did 
go  to  sleep  again — but  who  can  say?  He  really 
believed  himself  wide-awake,  though,  when  the  same 
voice  came  again;  not  loud,  to  be  sure,  but  unmis- 
takable. And  the  way  it  startled  him  helped  to 
convince  him  he  was  awake.  Because  one  is  never 


44  A  LIKELY  STORY 

surprised  at  anything  in  a  dream.  When  one  finds 
oneself  at  Church  in  a  stocking,  and  nothing  more, 
one  is  vexed  and  embarrassed,  certainly,  but  not 
surprised.  It  dawns  on  one  gradually.  If  this  was 
a  dream,  it  was  a  very  solid  one,  to  survive  Mr. 
Felly's  start  of  amazement.  It  brought  him  out  of 
his  chair,  and  set  him  looking  about  in  the  half- 
lighted  room  for  a  speaker,  somewhere. 

"  Who  are  you,  and  where  are  you  ?  "  said  he. 
For  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  The  firelight 
flickered  on  the  portraits  of  Sir  Stephen  Upwell,  the 
Cavalier,  who  was  killed  at  Naseby,  and  Marjory, 
his  wife,  who  was  a  Parliamentarian  fanatic ;  and  a 
phenomenal  trout  in  a  glass  case,  with  a  picture 
behind  it  showing  the  late  Baronet  in  the  distance 
striving  to  catch  it;  but  the  door  was  shut,  and 
Mr.  Felly  was  alone  in  the  library.  He  was  rather 
frightened  at  his  own  voice  in  the  stillness;  it 
sounded  like  delirium.  So  it  made  him  happier 
that  an  answer  should  come,  and  justify  it. 

"  I  am  here,  before  you.  Look  at  me !  I  am 
La  Risvegliata — that  is  what  you  call  me,  at  least." 
This  was  spoken  in  Italian,  but  it  must  be  trans- 
lated in  the  story.  Very  likely  you  understand 
Italian,  but  remember  how  many  English  do  not. 
Mr.  Felly  spoke  Italian  fluently — he  spoke  many 
languages — but  he  must  be  turned  into  English,  too, 
for  the  same  reason. 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  45 

"  But  you  are  a  picture,"  said  he.  "  You  cannot 
speak."  For  he  understood  then  that  his  hallucina- 
tion— as  he  thought  it,  believing  himself  awake — 
was  that  the  picture-woman  over  the  mantelpiece 
had  spoken  to  him.  He  felt  indignant  with  himself 
for  so  easily  falling  a  victim  to  a  delusion;  and 
transferred  his  indignation,  naturally,  to  the  blame- 
less phantom  of  his  own  creation.  Of  course,  he 
had  imagined  that  the  picture  had  spoken  to  him. 
For  "  La  Risvegliata  " — the  awakened  one — was  the 
name  that  had  been  written  on  the  frame  at  the 
wish  of  the  Baronet's  daughter,  when  a  few  months 
back  he  brought  this  picture,  by  an  unknown  artist, 
from  Italy. 

"  I  can  speak  " — so  it  replied  to  Mr.  Pelly — "  and 
you  can  hear  me,  as  I  have  heard  you  all  speaking 
about  me,  ever  since  I  came  to  this  strange 
land.  Any  picture  can  hear  that  is  well  enough 
painted." 

"  Why  have  you  never  spoken  before  ? "  Mr. 
Pelly  was  dumbfounded  at  the  unreasonableness  of 
the  position.  A  speaking  picture  was  bad  enough; 
but,  at  least,  it  might  be  rational.  He  fell  in  his 
own  good  opinion,  at  this  inconsistency  of  his  dis- 
tempered fancy. 

"  Why  have  you  never  listened  ?  I  have  spoken 
many  a  time.  How  do  I  know  why  you  have  not 
heard  ? "  Mr.  Pelly  could  not  answer,  and  the  voice 


46  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

continued,  "  Oh,  how  I  have  longed  and  waited  for 
one  of  you  to  catch  my  voice!  How  I  have  cried 
out  to  the  wooden  Marchese  whose  Marchesa  will 
not  allow  him  to  speak,  and  to  that  beautiful  Signora 
herself,  and  to  that  sweet  daughter  most  of  all. 
Oh,  why — why — have  they  not  heard  me  ?  "  But 
still  Mr.  Pelly  was  slow  to  answer.  He  found  some- 
thing to  say,  though,  in  the  end. 

"  I  can  entertain  no  reasonable  doubt  that  your 
voice  is  a  fiction  of  my  imagination.  But  you  will 
confer  a  substantial  favour  on  me  if  you  will  take 
advantage  of  it,  while  my  hallucination  lasts,  to  tell 
me  the  name  of  your  author — of  the  artist  who 
painted  you." 

"  Lo  Spazzolone  painted  me." 

"Lo   .    .    .   who?" 

"  Lo  Spazzolone.  Surely,  all  men  have  heard  of 
him.  But  it  is  his  nickname — the  big  brush — from 
his  great  bush  of  black  hair.  Ah  me! — how  beauti- 
ful it  was !  " 

"  Could  you  give  me  his  real  name,  and  tell  me 
something  about  him  ? "  Mr.  Pelly  took  from  his 
pocket  a  notebook  and  pencil. 

"  Giacinto  Boldrini,  of  course !  " 

"  Ought  I  to  know  him  ?  I  have  never  heard  his 
name." 

"  How  strange !  And  it  is  but  the  other  day  that 
he  was  murdered — oh,  so  foully  murdered!  But 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  47 

no! — I  am  wrong,  and  I  forget.     It  is  near  four 
hundred  years  ago." 

Mr.  Pelly  was  deeply  interested.  The  question 
of  whether  this  was  a  dream,  a  hallucination,  or  a 
vision,  or  the  result  of  exceeding  by  two  ounces  his 
usual  allowance  of  glasses  of  Madeira,  he  could  not 
answer  offhand.  Besides,  there  would  be  plenty  of 
time  for  that  after.  His  present  object  should  be 
to  let  nothing  slip,  however  much  he  felt  convinced 
of  its  illusory  character.  It  could  be  sifted  later. 
He  would  be  passive,  and  not  allow  an  ill-timed 
incredulity  to  mar  a  good  delusion  in  the  middle. 
He  switched  off  scepticism  for  the  time  being,  and 
spoke  sympathetically. 

"  Is  it  possible '{  Did  you  know  him  ?  But  of 
course  you  must  have  known  him,  or  he  could 
scarcely  have  painted  you.  Dear  me !  "  Mr.  Pelly 
checked  a  disposition  to  gasp;  that  would  never 
do — he  might  wake  himself  up,  and  spoil  all.  The 
sweet  voice  of  the  picture — it  was  like  a  voice,  mind 
you,  not  like  a  gramophone — was  prompt  with  its 
reply : 

"  I  knew  him  well.  But,  oh,  so  long  ago !  One 
gets  to  doubt  everything — all  that  was  most  real 
once,  that  made  the  very  core  of  our  lives.  Some- 
times I  think  it  was  a  dream — a  sweet  dream  with 
terror  at  the  end — a  nectar  cup  a  basilisk  was 
watching,  all  the  while.  Four  hundred  years! 


48  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

Can  I  be  sure  it  was  true?     Yet  I  remember  it  all 
— could  tell  it  now  and  miss  nothing." 

Mr.  Pelly  was  silent  a  moment  before  answer- 
ing. He  reflected  that  if  his  reply  led  to  a  circum- 
stantial narrative  of  events  four  hundred  years  old, 
it  would  be  a  bitter  disappointment  to  be  waked 
by  the  return  of  the  family,  and  to  have  it  all 
spoiled.  However,  it  was  only  ten  o'clock,  and 
they  might  be  three  hours  yet.  Besides,  it  was 
well  known  that  dreams  have  no  real  duration — 
are  in  fact  compressed  into  a  second  or  so  of  waking. 
He  would  risk  it. 

"  I  have  a  keen  interest,  Signora,"  said  he,  "  in 
the  forgotten  traditions  of  antiquity.  It  would 
indeed  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  me  if  you  would 
consider  me  worthy  of  your  confidence,  and  entrust 
to  me  some  portion  at  least  of  your  family  history, 
and  that  of  your  painter.  I  can  assure  you  that 
no  portion  of  what  you  tell  me  shall  be  published 
without  your  express  permission.  No  one  can 
detest  more  keenly  than  myself  the  modern 
American  practice  of  intrusion  into  private 
life.  ..."  He  stopped.  Surely  that  sound  was 
a  sigh,  if  not  a  sob.  In  a  moment  the  voice  of  the 
picture  came  again,  but  with  even  more  of  sadness  in 
it  than  before : 

"  Was  it  antiquity,  then,  in  those  days  ?  We 
did  not  know  it  then.  We  woke  to  the  day  that 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  49 

was  to  come — that  had  not  been,  before — even  as 
you  do  now;  and  the  voices  of  yesterday  were  not 
forgotten  in  our  ears.  We  flung  aside  the  thing  of 
the  hour;  as  you  do  now,  with  Jittle  thought  of 
what  we  lost,  and  lived  alone  for  hope,  and  the 
things  that  were  to  be.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
young  we  were  then.  And  remember!  I  am 
twenty  now;  as  I  was  then,  and  have  been,  ever 
since." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Pelly.  "  Your  original  was 
twenty  when  you  were  painted.  And  you  naturally 
remained  twenty."  He  felt  rather  prosaic  and  dry, 
and  to  soften  matters  added,  "  Tell  me  of  your 
first  painting,  and  what  is  earliest  in  your  recol- 
lection." 

"  Then  you  will  not  interrupt  me  ?  "  Mr.  Pelly 
gave  a  promise  the  voice  seemed  to  wait  for,  and 
then  it  continued,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  the  listener, 
told  the  tale  that  follows,  which  is  printed  as  con- 
tinuous. The  only  omissions  are  a  few  interrup- 
tions of  Mr.  Felly's,  which,  so  far  as  they  were 
inquiries  or  points  he  had  not  understood,  are  made 
up  for  by  very  slight  variations  in  the  text, 
which  he  himself  has  sanctioned,  as  useful  and 
explanatory. 

Whether  he  was  awake  or  dreaming,  he  never 
rightly  knew.  But  his  extraordinary  memory — 
he  is  quite  a  celebrity  on  this  score — enabled  him 


50  A  LIKELY  STORY 

to  write  the  whole  down  in  the  course  of  the  next  day 
or  two,  noting  his  own  interruptions,  now  omitted. 

The  most  rational  way  of  accounting  for  the 
occurrence  undoubtedly  is  that  the  old  gentleman 
had  a  very  vivid  dream,  suggested  by  his  having 
read  several  pages — this  he  admits — of  the  manu- 
script translation,  in  which  a  too  ready  credulity  has 
detected  a  sequel  to  the  story  itself.  None  knows 
better  than  the  student  of  alleged  supernatural 
phenomena  how  frequent  is  this  confusion  of  cause 
and  effect. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  PICTUBE'S  TALE.     IT  WAS  so  WELL  PAINTED — THAT  WAS- 

WHY  IT  COULD  HEAR  FOUR  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO.  HOW  ITS- 
PAINTER  HUNGERED  AND  THIRSTED  FOR  ITS  ORIGINAL,  AND 
VICE  VERSA.  HOW  OLD  JANUARY  HID  IN  A  SPY-HOLE,  TO- 
WATCH  MAY,  AND  SAW  IT  ALL.  OF  POPE  INNOCENT'S  PENE- 
TRATION. OF  CERTAIN  BELLS,  UNWELCOME  ONES.  HOW  TWO 
INNAMORATI  TRIED  TO  PART  WITHOUT  A  KISS,  AND  FAILED. 
NEVERTHELESS  ASSASSINS  STOPPED  IT  WHEN  IT  HAD  ONLY 
JUST  BEGUN.  BUT  GIACINTO  GOT  AT  JANUARY'S  THROAT.  HOW 
THE  PICTURE  WAS  FRAMED,  AND  HUNG  WHERE  MAY  COULD 
ONLY  SEE  IT  BY  TWISTING.  OF  THE  DUNGEON  BELOW  HER, 
WHERE  GIACINTO  MIGHT  BE.  HOW  JANUARY  DUG  AT  MAY 
WITH  A  WALKING-STAFF.  HOW  THE  PICTURE  WAS  IN  ABEY- 
ANCE, BUT  LOVED  A  FIREFLY;  THEN  WAS  INTERRED  IN  FUR- 
NITURE, AND  THREE  CENTURIES  SLIPPED  BY.  HOW  IT  SOLD 
FOR  SIX-FIFTY,  AND  WAS  SENT  TO  LONDON,  TO  A  PICTURE- 
RESTORER,  WHICH  IS  HOW  IT  COMES  INTO  THE  TALE.  HOW 
MR.  PELLY  WOKE  UP 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  what  is  earliest  in  my 
recollection.  I  will  do  so,  and  will  also  endeavour 
to  narrate  as  much  as  I  can  remember  of  the  life  of 
the  lady  I  was  painted  from;  whose  memory,  were 
she  now  living,  would  be  identical  with  my 
own. 

The  very  first  image  I  can  recall  is  that  of  my 
artist,  at  work.  He  is  the  first  human  being  I  ever 
saw,  as  well  as  the  first  visible  object  I  can  call  to 
mind.  He  is  at  work — as  I  am  guided  to  under- 

51 


52  A  LIKELY  STORY 

stand  by  what  I  have  learned  since — upon  my  right 
eye.  It  is  a  very  dim  image  indeed  at  the  outset, 
but  as  he  works  it  becomes  clearer,  and  at  last  I  see 
him  quite  plainly. 

He  is  a  dark  young  man,  with  hair  of  one  thick- 
ness all  over,  like  a  black  door-mat,  and  a  beautiful 
olive  skin.  As  he  turns  round  I  think  to  myself 
how  beautiful  his  neck  is  at  the  back  under  the  hair, 
and  that  I  should  like  to  kiss  it.  But  that  is 
impossible.  I  can  recall  my  pleasure  at  his  fixed 
gaze,  and  constant  resolute  endeavour.  Naturally 
I  want  him  to  paint  my  other  eye.  Then  I  shall  see 
him  still  better. 

I  am  not  surprised  at  his  saying  nothing — for 
remember! — I  did  not  know  what  speech  was  then. 
He  had  painted  my  mouth,  only,  of  course,  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Needless  also  to  say 
that  I  had  not  heard  a  word,  for  I  had  no  ear  at  all. 
I  have  only  one  now,  but  it  has  heard  all  that  has 
been  spoken  near  it  for  four  hundred  years.  I 
heard  nothing  then — nothing  at  all!  I  only  gazed 
fixedly  at  the  fascinating  creature  before  me  who 
was  trying  his  best  to  make  me  beautiful  too — to 
make  me  as  beautiful  as  something  that  I  could  not 
see — something  his  eyes  turned  round  to  at  intervals, 
something  to  my  right  and  his  left.  What  I  recall 
most  vividly  now  is  my  curiosity  to  know  what  this 
thing  or  person  was  that  took  his  eyes  off  me  at 


A  LIKELY  STORY  53 

odd  moments;  to  which  he  made,  now  and  again, 
slight  deprecatory  signs  and  corrective  movements 
with  his  left  hand;  from  which  he  received  some 
response  I  could  not  guess  at,  which  he  acknowl- 
edged by  a  full-spread  smile  of  grateful  recognition. 
But  always  in  perfect  silence,  though  I  saw,  when 
his  brush  was  not  in  front  of  my  incomplete  eye, 
that  his  lips  moved,  showing  his  beautiful  white 
teeth;  and  that  he  paused  and  listened — a  thing 
I  have  learned  about  since — with  a  certain  air  of 
deference,  as  towards  a  social  superior.  Oh,  how  I 
longed  to  see  this  unseen  being,  or  thing!  But  I 
was  not  to  do  so,  yet  awhile. 

My  recollection  goes  no  farther  than  the  fact  of 
this  young  artist,  working  on  in  a  strange,  systematic 
way,  quite  unlike  what  I  have  since  understood  to 
be  the  correct  method  for  persons  of  genius,  until  at 
the  end  of  some  period  I  cannot  measure,  he  paints 
my  other  eye,  and  I  rejoice  in  a  clearer  image  of 
himself;  of  the  huge  bare  room  he  works  in;  of 
the  small  window,  high  up,  with  its  cage  of  grating 
against  the  sky;  of  the  recess  below  it,  in  which, 
at  the  top  of  two  steps,  an  old  woman  sits  plaiting 
straws,  and  beside  her  a  black  dog,  close  shaved, 
except  his  head,  all  over.  But  I  get  no  light  upon 
the  strange  attraction  that  takes  my  creator's 
attention  off  me,  until  after  a  second  experience, 
as  strange  as  my  first  new-found  phenomenon  of 


54  A  LIKELY  STORY 

sight — to  wit,  my  hearing  of  sound.  As  he  painted 
my  ear,  it  came. 

At  first,  a  musical,  broken  murmur — then  another, 
that  mixes  with  it.  As  one  rises,  the  other  falls; 
then  both  together,  or  as  the  threads  of  a  cascade 
cross  and  intersect  in  mid-air.  Then  a  third  sound, 
a  sound  with  a  musical  ring  that  makes  my  heart 
leap  with  joy — a  sound  that  comes  back  to  me  now, 
when  in  the  early  mornings  of  summer,  I  hear, 
through  the  window  of  this  room  opened  outwards 
to  let  in  the  morning  air,  the  voice  of  the  little  brown 
bird  that  springs  high  into  the  blue  heaven,  and 
unpacks  its  tiny  heart  in  a  flood  of  song.  And 
then  I  think  to  myself  that  thai  is  the  language  in 
which  I  too  should  have  laughed,  had  laughter  been 
possible  to  me. 

For  what  I  heard  then  from  behind  the  easel  I 
stood  on  as  the  young  artist  painted  me  was  the 
laughter  of  Maddalena  Raimondi,  from  whom  he 
was  working;  whom  I  may  describe  myself  as  being. 
For  ought  not  the  name  written  on  the  frame  below 
me  to  be  hers  also,  with  the  date  of  her  birth  and 
death  ?  Are  not  my  eyes  that  I  see  with  now  hers  ? 
Is  not  the  nostril  with  the  lambent  curve — that  is 
what  a  celebrated  Art-Critic  has  called  it — hers, 
and  the  little  sea-shell  ear  hers  that  heard  you  say, 
but  now,  that  my  original  cannot  have  been  more 
than  twenty?  .  .  . 


A  LIKELY  STORY  55 

More  than  twenty!  No,  indeed! — for  in  those 
days  a  girl  of  twenty  was  a  woman.  And  the  girl 
that  one  day  a  little  later  came  round  at  a  signal 
from  behind  the  panel,  to  see  the  portrait  that  I  now 
knew  had  received  its  last  touch  from  its  maker, 
was  one  who  at  eighteen  had  been  threatened, 
driven,  goaded  into  harness  with  an  old  Devil  of 
high  rank,  to  whom  she  had  been  affianced  in  her 
babyhood;  and  who  is  now,  we  may  hope,  in  his 
proper  Hell,  as  Cod  has  appointed.  Yet  it  may 
well  be  he  is  among  the  Saints;  for  his  wealth  was 
great,  and  he  gave  freely  to  Holy  Church.  But  to 
Maddalena,  that  was  myself — for  was  I  not  she? — 
he  was  a  Devil  incarnate. 

For  mark  you  this :  that  all  she  had  known  I  too 
knew,  in  my  degree,  so  soon  as  ever  I  was  completed. 
Else  had  I  been  a  bad  portrait.  It  all  came  to  my 
memory  at  once.  I  remembered  my  happy  girl- 
hood, the  strange  indifference  of  my  utter  innocence 
when  I  was  first  told  I  was  destined  to  marry  the 
great  Duke,  whose  vassal  my  father  was,  and  how 
my  marriage  would  somehow — I  am,  maybe,  less 
clear  about  details  than  my  original  would  have 
been — release  my  father  from  some  debt  or  obliga- 
tion to  the  Raimondi  which  otherwise  would  have 
involved  the  forfeiture  of  our  old  home.  So 
ignorant  was  I  that  I  rejoiced  to  think  that  I  should 
be  the  means  of  preserving  for  my  family  the  long 


56  A  LIKELY  STORY 

stretches  of  vine-clad  hills  and  the  old  Castello  in  the 
Apennines  that  had  borne  our  name  since  the  first 
stone  was  laid,  centuries  ago.  So  ignorant,  innocent, 
indifferent — call  it  what  you  will ! — that  the  moment 
I  was  told  my  destiny  I  went  straight  to  Giacinto, 
the  page,  with  whom  I  had  grown  from  infancy,  to 
tell  him  the  good  news,  that  he  might  rejoice  too. 
But  he  would  not  rejoice  at  my  bidding,  and  he 
was  moody  and  reserved,  and  I  wondered.  I  was 
but  twelve  and  he  thirteen.  Although  a  girl  may 
be  older  than  a  boy,  even  at  those  years,  her  eyes  are 
not  so  wide  open  to  see  some  things,  and  it  may  be 
the  saw  plainer  than  I.  I  know  not. 

This,  then,  was  what  had  happened  to  the  beautiful 
creature  that  came  round  into  my  sight  on  that  day 
that  I  first  saw  and  heard  and  knew  her  for  myself, 
and  hoped  I  was  well  done,  and  very  like.  And 
thus,  also,  it  all  came  back  to  me,  so  soon  as  I  was 
finished  and  was  really  Maddalena  Raimondi,  how 
the  great  Venetian  artist,  Angelo  Allori,  whom 
they  called  II  Bronzino,  came  to  the  Castello  to 
paint  my  mother,  and  how  he  took  a  fancy  to 
Giacinto,  and  would  have  him  away  to  his  studio, 
and  taught  him  how  to  use  brushes  and  colours,  and 
how  to  grind  and  prepare  these  last,  and  to  make 
canvas  ready  for  the  painter.  And  it  ended  by  his 
taking  him  as  an  apprentice,  at  his  own  wish  and 
Giacinto's.  And  they  went  away  together  to 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  57 

Venice,  and  I  could  recall  now  that  Maddalena  had 
not  seen  Giacinto  after  that  for  six  years. 

That  is  to  say:  she  had  not  seen  him  till  he  came 
to  the  Villa  Raimondi  in  the  first  year  of  her  un- 
happy marriage,  an  unhappy  bride  with  all  the 
deadly  revelation  of  the  realities  of  life  that  an 
accursed  wedlock  must  needs  bring.  The  girl  was 
no  longer  a  girl ;  she  knew  what  she  had  lost.  And 
I  knew  it  too,  and  all  that  she  had  known  up  to  the 
moment  of  that  last  brush-touch,  when  Giacinto  said, 
"  Now,  carissima  Signora,  you  may  come  round  and 
see!" 

And  the  ringing  laugh  came  round,  and  slie  came 
round,  that  had  been  me.  Then  I  too  saw  what  I 
had  been — what  I  was  still.  And  after  that,  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  saw  and  heard — but  presently ! 

For  I  want  you  first  to  know  what  Maddalena 
was  when  her  old  owner  told  her  that  he  had  com- 
manded a  young  Venetian  artist,  of  rising  fame,  to 
come  at  once,  under  penalty  of  his  displeasure,  to 
paint  her  portrait  in  a  dress  of  yellow  satin  brocade 
well  broidered  in  gold  thread,  and  a  gorgiera  of  fine 
linen  turned  back  over  it,  that  had  belonged  to  his 
first  wife,  Vittoria  Fanfani,  who  was  much  of  the 
size  and  shape  of  la  Maddalena,  as  who  could 
tell  better  than  he?  And  for  this  portrait  she  was 
to  sit  or  stand,  as  the  painter  should  arrange,  in 
front  of  the  tapestry  showing  Solomon's  Judgment 


58  A  LIKELY  STORY 

in  the  Stanza  delle  Quattro  Corone;  which  is,  as  you 
would  say,  The  Koom  of  the  Four  Crowns,  so  called 
because  it  was  said  four  Kings  had  met  there  in  old 
days,  three  of  whom  had  slain  the  fourth,  which 
was  accounted  of  great  fame  to  the  Castello  Rai- 
mondi.  And  the  time  for  this  painting  was  to  be 
each  day  after  the  sun  had  passed  the  meridian; 
for  the  room  looked  southeast,  and  one  must  study 
the  sun.  And  Marta  Zan  would  always  be  in 
attendance,  as  a  serious  person  who  would  keep  a 
check  on  any  pranks  such  young  people  might 
choose  to  play.  For  as  I  too  now  knew  and  could 
well  remember,  it  was  a  wicked  touch  of  this  old 
birbante's  character  that  he  was  never  tired  of  a 
wearisome  pretence  that  this  young  Maddalena, 
whose  heart  was  truly  broken  if  ever  girl's  heart 
was,  was  still  full  of  joyousness  and  youth  and 
kittenish  tricks.  And  he  would  rally  her  waggishly 
before  his  retinue  for  pranks  she  had  never  played, 
and  pretended  youthful  escapades  she  could  have 
had  no  heart  for.  For  in  truth  she  was  filled  up 
with  sorrow,  and  shame  of  herself  and  her  kind,  and 
intense  loathing  of  the  old  man  her  master;  but 
she  was  forced  to  reply  to  his  unwelcome  badinage 
by  such  pretence  as  might  be  of  gaiety  in  return. 
And  this,  although  she  knew  well  all  the  while  that 
there  was  not  a  scullion  among  them  all  but  could 
say  how  little  she  loved  this  eighty-year-old  lord 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  59 

of  hers;  though  none  could  guess,  not  even  the 
women,  what  good  cause  she  had  to  hate  him. 

But  the  sly  old  fox  knew  well  enough ;  and  when 
he  made  his  edict  that  Marta  Zan — an  old  crone, 
who  had  been,  some  said,  his  mistress  in  his  youth 
— should  keep  watch  and  ward  over  his  young  wife's 
demeanour  with  this  new  painting  fellow,  he  knew 
too  that  in  the  thick  wall  of  the  Stanza  delle  Quattro 
Corone  was  a  little,  narrow  entry,  where  one  might 
lie  hid  at  any  time,  approaching  from  without,  and 
see  all  that  passed  in  the  chamber  below.  And  so 
he  would  see  and  know  for  himself;  for  he 
knew  Marta  Zan  too  well  to  place  much  faith  in 
her. 

You  may  guess,  then,  that  Maddalena,  when  il 
Duca  first  informed  her  of  his  gracious  pleasure 
about  the  portrait,  was  little  inclined  to  take  an 
interest  in  that,  or  any  other  scheme  of  his  High- 
ness; but  to  avoid  incurring  his  resentment,  she 
was  bound  to  affect  an  interest  she  did  not  feel,  and 
in  this  she  succeeded,  so  far  as  was  necessary.  But 
my  lord  Duke  was  growing  suspicious  of  her;  only 
he  was  far  too  wily  an  old  fox  to  show  his  mistrust 
openly.  Be  sure  that  when,  after  Maddalena's 
first  sitting  with  my  young  artist,  he  noticed  that 
the  roses  had  returned  to  her  cheeks,  and  that  her 
step  was  light  again  upon  the  ground,  he  said  never 
a  word  to  show  his  thought,  and  only  resolved  in 


60  A  LIKELY  STORY 

his  wicked  old  heart  to  spy  upon  the  two  young 
people  from  his  eyrie  in  the  wall. 

It  was  little  to  be  wondered  at  that  Maddalena 
should  show  pleasure  when  she  saw  who  after  all 
was  the  young  Venetian  painter;  who,  still  almost 
a  boy,  had  climbed  so  high  in  fame  that  it  was 
already  held  an  honour  to  be  painted  by  him.  For 
he  was  her  old  friend  Giacinto,  and  she  in  her  languid 
lack  of  interest  in  all  about  her,  had  never  asked 
what  was  the  actual  name  of  Lo  Spazzolone.  For 
by  this  nickname  only  had  he  been  spoken  of  in  her 
presence,  and  it  may  easily  be  he  was  known  by  no 
other  to  the  old  Duca  himself,  so  universal  is  the 
practice  of  nicknaming  among  the  artists  of  Italy. 
But  he  was  Giacinto  himself,  sure  enough! — only 
grown  so  tall  and  handsome.  And  you  may  fancy 
how  gladly  the  poor  Maddalena  would  have  flung 
her  arms  round  the  boy  she  had  known  from  her 
cradle,  and  kissed  her  welcome  into  his  soul — only 
there!  was  she  not  a  wife,  and  the  wife  too  of  the 
thing  men  called  the  Duke?  What  manner  of 
thing  was  he,  that  God  should  have  made  him,  there 
in  the  light  of  day  ? 

But  if  it  was  difficult  for  Maddalena  to  keep  her 
embrace  of  welcome  in  check,  you  may  fancy  how 
strong  a  constraint  my  young  painter  had  to  put  on 
himself  when  he  saw  who  the  great  lady  was  whom 
he  was  come  to  paint.  For  none  had  told  him, 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  61 

and  till  she  came  suddenly  upon  him  in  all  the 
beauty  of  her  full  and  perfect  womanhood,  he  had  no 
idea  that  she  would  be  la  Maddalena — la  sua  sorel- 
laccia  (that  is,  his  ugly  sister),  as  he  would  call  her 
in  jest  in  those  early  days — because  there  was  no 
doubt  of  her  beauty,  and  the  joke  was  a  safe  one. 
Only  mind  you! — this  would  be  when  they  were 
alone,  as  might  be,  in  the  court  of  the  old  Castello, 
looking  down  into  the  deep  well  and  dropping  stones 
to  hear  them  splash  long  after,  or  gathering  the  green 
figs  in  the  poderi  when  the  great  heat  was  gone  from 
August,  and  they  could  ramble  out  in  the  early 
mornings.  When  her  sisters  or  brothers  were  there, 
she  was  la  Signorina  Maddalena.  I  can  remember 
it  all  now !  One  does  not  lightly  forget  these  hours 
— the  hours  before  the  ugly  dawn  of  the  real  World. 
Nor  the  little  joys  one  takes  as  a  right,  without  a 
rapture  or  a  thought  of  gratitude;  nor  the  little 
pangs  one  thinks  so  hard  to  bear,  and  so  soon 
forgets. 

If  you  should  ask  me  how  it  came  about  that  the 
two  of  them  should  have  so  completely  parted 
during  all  those  six  years,  that  la  Maddalena  should 
not  even  have  known  the  nickname  of  the  young 
painter,  nor  his  fame,  I  must  beg  that  you  will 
remember  that  these  were  not  the  days  of  daily 
posts,  of  telegraphs,  and  railways;  nor  of  any  of 
the  strange  new  things  I  hear  of  now,  and  find  so 


62  A  LIKELY  STORY 

hard  to  understand.  Moreover,  my  own  opinion  is 
that  the  parents  of  Maddalena  judged  shrewdly  that 
this  young  stripling  was  no  friend  to  be  encouraged 
for  a  little  daughter  that  was  to  be  the  salvation  of 
their  property.  The  less  risk,  the  less  danger! 
The  fewer  boys  about,  the  fewer  fancies  of  a  chit. 
They  managed  it  all,  be  sure  of  that!  It  was  for 
the  girl's  own  best  interest. 

But — dear  me !  * — if  you  know  anything  of  life 
in  youth,  and  of  the  golden  thread  of  Love  that  is 
shot  through  it  in  the  weft,  and  starts  out  some- 
where always,  here  or  there,  whatever  light  you 
hold  it  in — if  you  know  this,  there  is  no  more  to 
be  said  of  why,  when  they  met  again,  in  the  Stanza 
delle  Quattro  Corone,  each  heart  should  leap  out  to 
meet  the  other,  and  then  shrink  back  chilled,  at 
the  thought  of  what  they  were  now  that  they  were 
not  once,  and  of  what  perforce  they  had  to  be 
hereafter.  But  the  moment  was  their  own,  and 
none  pauses  in  the  middle  of  a  draught  of  nectar 
because,  forsooth,  the  cup  will  soon  be  empty.  La 
Maddalena  became,  in  one  magic  instant,  a  Madda- 
lena whose  laugh  rang  out  like  the  song  of  the  little 
brown  bird  I  told  you  of  but  now,  and  filled  the 
wicked  old  room  with  its  music.  And  as  for  our 

*  Probably  the  words  Mr.  Pelly  heard  were  "Dio  miof"  which 
some  consider  the  original  of  the  English  ' '  Dear  me ! "  Many 
of  the  expressions  are  evidently  literal  translations.— EDITOR. 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  63 

poor  Giacinto — well! — are  you  a  man,  and  were 
you  ever  young?  He  could  promise  the  withered 
old  Duca  that  he  would  make  a  merry  picture  of  la 
Duchessa;  none  of  your  sinister  death's-head 
portraits,  but  with  the  smile  of  sua  Altezza.  For 
all  Maddalena's  heart  was  in  her  face,  and  that  face 
wore  again  the  smile  of  the  old,  old  days,  the  days 
long  before  her  bridal.  And  you  see  that  face  before 
you  now. 

Now,  if  only  this  old  shrunken  mummy  will 
begone !  If  he  will  only  go  away  to  count  over  his 
gold,  to  rack  his  tenantry  for  more  than  his  share 
of  the  oil-crop,  to  get  absolution  for  his  sins,  or, 
better  still,  to  go  to  expiate  them  in  the  proper 
place!  If  he  will  only  take  his  venerable  presence 
and  his  cold  firm  eye  away — if  it  be  but  for  an 
hour!  .  .  . 

He  went — sooner  than  we  had  hoped.  And  then 
when  he  was  quite,  quite  gone,  and  the  coast  was 
clear,  then  the  laughter  broke  out.  And  Marta 
Zan  wondered  was  this  really  the  new  Duchessa? 
— she  who  had  brought  from  her  bridal  no  smile 
but  a  sad  one,  no  glance  unhaunted  by  the  memory 
or  the  forecast  of  a  tear,  no  word  of  speech  but  had 
its  own  resonance  of  a  broken  heart.  The  beldam 
chuckled  to  herself,  and  saw  money  to  come  of  it, 
if  she  winked  skilfully  enough,  and  at  the  right  time. 
But  in  this  she  was  wrong,  for  she  judged  these 


64  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

young  people  by  her  bad  old  self;  and  indeed  they 
thought  no  harm  of  her  sort.  Neither  could  she 
see  their  souls,  nor  they  hers.  But  the  laughter 
and  the  voices  filled  the  place,  and  each  felt  a  child 
again,  and  back  in  the  old  Castello.  ir  the  hills. 

"  And  was  it  really  you,  Giacinto  \  You,  your 
very  self — the  little  Giacintino  grown  so  great  a 
man !  Dio  mio,  how  great  a  man  you  have  grown !  " 

"  And  was  the  Duchessa  then  la  nostra  Maddalena, 
grown  to  be  a  great  Signora !  Was  it  all  true  ?  " 

And  then  old  Marta  scowled  from  the  steps  below 
the  window,  for  was  not  this  saucy  young  painter 
bold  enough  to  kiss  the  little  hand  her  mistress  let 
him  hold  so  long;  and  most  likely  she  was  ready 
enough  to  guess  that  the  poor  boy  had  much  ado 
to  be  off  kissing  the  lips  that  smiled  on  him  as  well. 
But  then,  when  the  Maddalena  saw  through  his 
heart,  and  saw  all  this  as  plain  as  I  tell  it  you  now, 
she  flinched  off  with  a  little  sigh,  and  a  chill  came. 
For  now,  she  said,  they  were  grown-up  people, 
responsible  and  serious,  and  must  behave!  And 
Marta  Zan  would  not  be  cross;  for  look  you,  Marta 
cara,  was  not  this  Giacinto,  her  foster-brother,  and 
had  they  not  been  rocked  to  sleep  in  the  same 
cradle?  And  had  they  not  eaten  the  grapes  of  a 
dozen  vintages  at  her  father's  little  castle  on  the 
hill,  and  heard  the  dogs  bark  all  across  the  plain 
below  in  the  summer  nights? 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  65 

So  Marta,  though  she  looked  mighty  glum  over 
it,  kept  her  thoughts  for  her  own  use,  with  due 
consideration  how  she  might  get  most  profit  from 
what  she  foresaw,  and  yet  keep  her  footing  firm 
with  her  great  Duke.  She  was  a  cunning  old  black 
spot,  was  Marta,  and  quick  to  scheme  her  own 
advantage,  for  all  she  was  near  seventy.  But  she 
saw  no  reason  for  meddling  to  check  her  young 
Duchessas  free  flow  of  spirits,  and  she  invented  a 
good  apology  for  letting  her  alone.  She  was  not 
going  to  mar  the  portrait  by  making  the  sitter  cry 
and  look  sulky:  red  eyes  and  swelled  cheeks  were 
no  man's  joy.  So  she  told  her  employer.  And 
she  thought  to  herself,  see  how  content  the  old  man 
is,  and  how  clever  am  I  to  hoodwink  him  so ! 

Be  sure,  though,  that  she  did  not  know  how  he 
was  passing  his  time,  more  and  more,  in  that  little 
chapel  of  knavery  in  the  wall,  but  a  few  yards  from 
the  two  happy  young  folk,  as  they  laughed  and 
talked  over  their  old  days.  Only  in  this,  you  may 
believe  me,  that  never  a  word  passed  between  them 
— for  all  that  so  many  came  to  the  lips  of  both  and 
were  disallowed — that  might  not  have  been  spoken, 
almost,  in  the  presence  of  the  gracious  Duke  himself 
— nay,  quite! — if  he  had  not  been  so  corrupt 
and  tainted  an  old  curmudgeon  that  he  would  have 
found  a  scutch  on  the  leaf  of  a  lily  new-blown,  and 
read  dishonour  into  innocence  itself.  So  there  he 


66  A  LIKELY  STORY 

sits  in  his  evil  eyrie,  day  by  day,  hatching  false 
interpretation  of  every  word  and  movement,  but 
all  silence  and  caution,  for  come  what  may  he  will 
not  spoil  the  portrait.  It  will  be  time  enough  when 
it  is  quite  done.  Time  enough  for  what  ?  We  shall 
see.  Meanwhile,  as  well  to  keep  his  eye  on  them! 
Small  trust  to  be  placed  in  Marta  Zan ! 

So,  all  this  while,  I  grew  and  grew.  And  the 
laugh  that  you  see  on  my  lips  is  Maddalena's  as  she 
sat  looking  down  on  her  young  painter,  and  the  joy 
and  content  of  my  eyes  are  her  joy  and  content; 
and  the  loose  lock  of  hair  that  ripples,  a  stream  of 
golden  red,  over  the  red-gold  of  the  brocaded 
gilliflower  on  the  bosom  of  my  bodice,  is  the  lock  of 
hair  Maddalena  had  almost  told  Giacinto  he  might 
cut  away  and  take,  to  keep  for  her  sake.  But  she 
dared  not,  because  of  that  dried  old  fig,  old  Marta, 
and  the  grim  eye  of  her  owner.  Yet  she  might 
never  see  Giacinto  again!  She  suspected,  in  her 
heart,  that  he  would  be  schemed  away  from  her  once 
more,  as  before. 

But  I  grew  and  grew.  And  now  the  hour  is  near 
when  no  pretence  can  prolong  the  sittings  that  have 
been  the  happiness — the  more  than  happiness — of 
six  whole  Autumn  weeks.  How  quick  they  had 
run  away!  Could  it  be  six  weeks!  Yes,  it  was. 
And  there  was  an  ugly,  threatening  look  in  the 
Duke's  old  eye;  but  he  said  little  enough.  No 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  67 

doubt  Messer  il  Pittore  knew  best  how  long  was 
needed  to  paint  a  portrait;  but  he  had  said  three 
weeks,  at  the  outset.  So  it  must  needs  be.  And 
this,  to-day,  was  the  last  sitting;  and  the  picture 
— that  was  I — would  be  complete,  and  have  a 
frame,  and  hang  on  the  wall  in  the  great  room  of 
state,  where  already  were  hanging  the  two  portraits 
of  the  former  wives  of  his  Excellency;  whereof  the 
last  one  died  three  years  before,  and  left  the  old 
miscreant  free  to  affiance  himself  to  the  little  Madda- 
lena,  who  was  then  too  young  to  marry,  being  but 
fourteen  years  old.  So  at  least  said  her  mother, 
and  his  Excellency  was  gracious  enough  to  defer 
his  nuptials,  in  spite  of  his  years.  And  our  most 
Holy  Father  Pope  Innocent  was  truly  convinced 
by  this  that  the  charge  of  the  Duke's  enemies  made 
against  him  of  having  poisoned  his  second  wife  was 
groundless.  For  with  so  young  a  bride  in  view, 
would  not  any  man  have  deferred  poisoning  a  lady 
who  was  still  young  and  comely,  at  least  until  the 
object  of  his  new  passion  was  old  enough  to  take 
her  place?  So  said  his  Holiness,  and  for  my  part 
I  think  he  showed  in  this  his  penetration  and  his 
wide  insight  and  understanding  of  his  fellow-men. 
For  man  is,  as  saith  Scripture,  created  in  the  Image 
of  God,  and  it  is  but  seemly  and  reasonable  that 
His  Vicar  on  Earth  should  know  the  inner  secrets 
of  the  human  heart;  albeit  he  may  have  small 


68  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

experience  himself  of  Love,  as  is  the  manner  of 
Ecclesiastics. 

I  will  now  tell  you  all  I  saw  on  that  day  of  the 
last  sitting,  being  now  as  it  were  full-grown  and  able 
to  see  and  note  all;  besides  being,  as  I  have  tried 
to  show,  able  to  feel  all  the  lady  Maddalena  had 
felt  and  to  follow  her  inmost  thought. 

When  they  were  come  to  the  end  of  the  work  I 
could  see  that  both  were  heavy  at  heart  for  the 
parting  that  was  to  come;  and  I  knew  of  myself 
that  Maddalena  had  slept  little,  and  I  knew,  too,  that 
this  was  not  because  sua  Eccellenza  the  Duke  snored 
heavily  all  night,  for  had  that  been  so,  poor 
Maddalena  would  have  been  ill  off  for  sleep  at  the 
best  of  times.  No  I — she  had  lain  awake  thinking 
of  Giacinto;  and  he  of  her,  it  may  be.  But  what 
do  I  know?  I  could  see  he  was  not  happy:  could 
you  expect  it?  And  his  hand  shook,  and  he  did 
no  good  to  me.  And  he  would  not  touch  my 
face  and  hands  with  the  colour,  and  I  well  knew 
why. 

Therefore,  when  he  had  tried  for  a  little  and  could 
not  work  to  any  purpose,  my  lady  la  Duchessa  says, 
as  one  who  takes  courage — for  neither  had  yet 
spoken  of  how  they  must  part — "  Come,  my  Gia- 
cinto, let  us  be  of  better  cheer,  and  not  be  so  down- 
cast. For  who  knows  but  the  good  God  may  let 
us  meet  again  one  happy  day  when  His  will  is? 


A  LIKELY  STORY  69 

Let  us  be  grateful  for  the  little  hour  of  our  felicity, 
and  make  no  complaint  now  that  it  was  not  longer. 
But  you  cannot  work,  my  Giacinto,  and  are  doing 
no  good  to  the  beautiful  picture.  Leave  it  and  come 
and  sit  here  by  me,  and  we  will  talk  of  the  old  days, 
the  dear  old  time.  And  as  for  the  old  Marta,  she  is 
sound  asleep  and  snoring;  only  not  so  loud  as  my 
old  pig  of  a  husband  all  last  night !  "  Indeed,  it  was 
true  of  old  Marta,  but  for  my  own  part  I  think  she 
was  only  pretending  to  be  asleep,  for  my  Maddalena 
had  talked  to  her  of  how  this  would  be  the  last  time, 
and  softened  her,  and  given  her  ten  Venetian  ducats 
and  a  cap  of  lace.  But,  for  the  snoring  of  the  old 
Duke,  it  had  done  some  service;  for  the  little  joke 
about  it  had  made  Maddalena  speak  more  cheerfully, 
and  Giacinto  could  find  a  laugh  for  it,  though  he 
had  little  heart  to  laugh  out  roundly  at  anything. 
La  Maddalena  went  near  to  make  him,  though! 
For  she  talked  of  how  thirteen  little  puppies  all 
came  at  once  of  three  mothers,  and  she  christened 
them  all  after  the  Blessed  Apostles  and  Judas 
Iscariot,  and  every  one  was  drowned  or  given  away 
except  Judas  Iscariot;  and  how  she  would  hold  up 
Judas  for  Giacinto  to  kiss,  saying  he  was  a  safe 
Judas  this  time,  as  how  could  he  be  else  with  that 
little  fat  stomach,  and  not  a  month  old. 

So  I  was  finished,  and  Giacinto  would  have  put 
his  signature  in  one  corner  had  he  not  thought  it 


70  A  LIKELY  STORY 

best  to  wait  until  sua  Eccellenza  the  Duke  had  seen 
it,  for  who  could  say  he  would  not  have  it  altered  ? 
Messer  Angelo  Allori  had  finished  a  portrait  of  la 
Principessa  Gonzaga  and  just  as  he  was  thinking 
to  sign  it,  what  does  her  ladyship  do  but  say  she 
would  rather  have  been  painted  in  her  camorra  di 
seta  verde,  and  thereat  he  had  to  paint  out  the  old 
dress  and  paint  in  the  new,  for  none  might  say  nay 
to  la  Principessa.  So  that  is  how  it  comes  that 
this  picture — that  I  am — is  unsigned;  and  that  the 
Art  Critics,  for  once,  are  not  unanimous  about  who 
was  the  author. 

But  /  know  who  that  author  was,  and  I  can  see 
him  still  as  he  sits  at  the  feet  of  his  lady,  la  Duchessa 
Maddalena,  and  his  thick,  black  hair  that  had  got 
him  the  nickname  of  Spazzolone;  which  is,  or 
would  be  as  speech  goes  now,  the  scrubbing-brush. 
And  I  can  see  his  beautiful  olive-tinted  throat, 
more  fair  than  tawny,  like  ivory,  and  his  great  black 
eyes,  like  an  antelope's.  I  can  see  her,  la  Maddalena, 
seated  above  him — for  he  is  on  the  ground — her 
two  white  hands  encircling  her  knees,  with  many 
rings  on  them,  one  a  great  opal,  the  one  you  see  on 
my  finger  now ;  and  her  face,  with  the  red-gold  hair, 
you  see  on  my  head,  but  somewhat  fallen  about  it, 
for  it  had  shaken  down;  and  the  face  it  hedged  in 
was  white — so  white!  It  was  not  as  you  see  me 
now;  rather,  indeed,  the  face  of  the  sad  Maddalena 


A  LIKELY  STORY  71 

before  ever  she  saw  Lo  Spazzolone,  than  mine  as  I 
have  it  before  you.  Look  awhile  upon  my  face, 
and  then  figure  it  to  yourself  as  it  would  be  if  the 
lips  wanted  to  tremble,  and  the  eyes  to  weep, 
but  neither  would  do  so,  from  sheer  courage  and 
strength  of  heart  against  an  evil  cloud.  Then  you 
will  see  la  Maddalena  as  she  sat  there  with  eyes 
fixed  on  Giacinto,  knowing  each  minute  nearer  the 
end;  but  all  the  more  taking  each  minute  at  the 
most,  as  one  condemned  to  die  delays  over  his  last 
meal  on  earth.  The  gaoler  will  come,  and  the 
prison-guard,  and  he  knows  it. 

How  long,  do  you  ask  me,  did  the  pair  sit  thus, 
the  eyes  of  each  devouring  the  face  of  the  other; 
the  lips  of  each  replying  to  the  other  in  a  murmured 
undertone  I  could  not  have  heard  from  where  I 
stood  on  my  easel,  had  it  not  been  that  I  too,  myself, 
was  la  Maddalena,  and  spoke  her  words  and  heard 
his  voice?  I  can  only  tell  you  the  time  seemed  too 
short — though  it  was  none  so  short  a  time,  neither! 
But  I  do  not  know.  I  do  know  this,  though — and 
I  wish  you  too  to  know  it,  that  you  may  think  no 
thought  of  blame  of  my  Maddalena — that  never  a 
word  passed  her  lips  that  any  young  wife  might  not 
fairly  and  honestly  speak  to  her  husband's  friend. 
And  scarce  a  word  of  his  in  return  that  might  not 
have  been  fairly  and  honestly  spoken  back;  and 
for  such  a  slight  forgetfulness,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 


72  A  LIKELY  STORY 

of  what  was  safe  for  both — will  you  not  forgive  the 
poor  boy?  Remember,  he  was  but  a  boy  at  best, 
for  all  his  marvellous  skill.  And  was  not  his  skill 
marvellous  ?  For  look  at  my  lips,  and  see  how  they 
are  drawn!  Look  at  my  eyes  and  say,  have  they 
moved  or  not — or  will  they  not  move,  in  an  instant  ? 
Look  at  the  little  bright  threads  of  gold  in  my  cloud 
of  hair!  And  then  say,  was  he  not  a  wondrous 
boy? 

But  a  boy  for  all  that!  And  to  my  thinking  it 
was  because  he  was  a  boy,  or  was  only  just  a  man 
having  his  manhood  forced  painfully  upon  him  by 
sorrow,  that  he  gave  the  rein  for  one  moment  to  his 
tongue.  And  it  was  such  a  little  moment,  after  all ! 
Listen  and  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  will  not  blame  him. 
Promise  me ! 

They  had  talked,  the  two  of  them — or  of  us,  as 
you  choose  to  have  it — over  and  over  of  the  old 
days  at  the  Castello,  of  the  old  Cappellano  who 
winked  at  all  their  misdeeds,  and  stood  between 
them  and  the  anger  of  her  parents,  many  a  time. 
How  they  had  frightened  him  half  to  death  by 
making  believe  they  had  the  Venetian  plague  upon 
them,  by  dropping  melted  wax  on  their  skins  with 
little  strawberries  in  the  middle.  And  how  Giacinto 
undeceived  him  by  eating  the  strawberries.  And 
what  nasty  little  monkeys  they  were  in  those  days, 
to  be  sure!  That  made  them  laugh,  and  they  were 


A  LIKELY  STORY  73 

quite  merry  for  a  while.  But  then  they  got  sad 
again  when  la  Maddalena  told  how  Fra  Poco — 
that  was  what  they  called  il  padre  Buti  the  Cappel- 
lano,  for  he  was  a  little  man — was  the  only  one  of 
them  all  that  had  had  a  Avord  to  say  against  her 
marriage,  and  how  he  had  denounced  her  father  one 
day  as  for  a  crime,  and  invoked  the  vengeance  of 
God  upon  the  old  Duke's  head  for  using  his  power 
to  defraud  a  young  virgin  of  her  life,  and  saying  let 
him  have  the  lands  and  enjoy  them  as  he  would, 
and  rather  go  out  and  beg  on  the  highways  for  alms 
than  sacrifice  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  And  how 
she  had  overheard  all  this  speech  of  Fra  Poco,  and 
had  said  to  herself  that,  come  what  might,  she  would 
save  the  old  domain  for  her  father  and  her  brother. 
And  how  that  very  day  her  brother,  who  was  but 
young,  had  beaten  her  with  her  own  fan,  and  then 
run  away  with  it;  and  little  he  knew  what  she  was 
to  suffer  for  'him!  But  in  truth  she  knew  little 
enough  herself,  for  what  does  a  girl-chit  know ! 

And  it  may  have  been  her  fault,  too,  or  mine,  for 
talking  thus  of  her  marriage,  and  none  of  the  boy's 
own,  that  my  Giacinto  should  have,  as  I  say,  half 
forgotten  himself.  For  it  was  but  just  after  she 
had  spoken  thus,  and  they  had  sat  sad  and  silent 
for  a  space,  that  the  big  bells  of  San  Felice  hard  by 
must  needs  clang  out  suddenly  in  the  evening  air, 
and  then  they  knew  their  parting  had  come,  too 


74  A  LIKELY  STORY 

soon,  and  that  then  they  might  never  meet  again. 
And  on  that  my  Giacinto  cried  out  as  one  whose 
heaviness  of  heart  is  too  sore  to  be  borne,  "  0  sorel- 
laccia  mia!  Mia  carina — mio  tesoro!  Oh,  if  it 
might  but  be  all  a  dream,  and  we  might  wake  and 
find  it  so,  at  the  old  Castello  in  the  hills,  and  hear 
the  croaking  of  the  frogs  and  the  singing  of  the 
nightingales  when  the  sun  had  gone  to  bed,  and  be 
punished  for  staying  out  too  late  to  listen  to  them! 
Oh,  Maddalena  mia! — the  happy  days  when  there 
were  no  old  Dukes!  ..."  But  la  Maddalena 
stopped  him  in  his  speech,  saying,  but  as  one  says 
words  that  choke  in  his  throat,  "  Enough — enough, 
Signore  Giacinto!  Remember  what  we  are  now — 
remember  what  I  am ! — what  you  are !  "  For  this, 
said  she,  was  not  how  sua  Eccellenza  the  Duke  should 
be  spoken  of  in  his  own  house.  And  then  the  great 
bells,  that  were  so  near  they  went  nigh  to  deafen 
you,  stopped  jangling;  but  the  biggest  had  some- 
thing to  say  still,  a  loud  word  at  a  time,  and  far 
apart.  And  what  he  said  was,  that  now  the  hour 
had  come,  and  they  should  meet  no  more.  And 
then  he  paused,  and  they  thought  he  was  silent. 
But  he  came  back  suddenly  once  again,  to  cry  out 
"  Never !  "  and  was  still. 

Then  comes  the  old  Marta  from  her  corner,  rubbing 
her  eyes,  for  she  had  been  very  sound  asleep.  And 
her  mistress,  as  one  who  will  not  be  contradicted, 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  75 

points  her  on  in  front,  and  she  passes  out,  and  her 
black  dog.  Then  says  my  Maddalena  to  the  painter, 
"  And  now,  farewell,  my  friend,"  and  holds  out  her 
hand  for  him  to  kiss,  for  is  she  not  the  Duchess  ? 
And  he  kisses  it  without  speech,  but  with  a  sort  of 
sob,  and  she  gathers  up  her  train,  and  turns  to  go. 
But  as  she  reaches  the  door,  she  hears  behind  her 
the  voice  that  tries  to  speak,  but  cannot. 

Then  she  turns,  and  her  despair  is  white  in  her 
face.  And  Giacinto's  eyes  are  in  his  hands — he 
dares  not  look  up.  But  she  goes  back  and  he  hears 
her,  and  his  name  as  she  speaks  it.  And  then  he 
looks  up,  and  see! — they  are  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  as  though  never  to  part.  And  then  Madda- 
lena knows,  and  I  know  with  her,  what  Love  is,  and 
what  Life  might  have  been.  To  think  now,  at  such 
a  moment,  of  the  abhorred  caresses  that  must  be 
endured,  later!  l$o,  my  Maddalena,  nothing  to  be 
thought  of  now,  nothing  said,  nothing  seen  nor 
heard,  just  for  that  few  moments  that  will  never 
come  again! 

That  was  so,  and  therefore  neither  of  these  im- 
prudent young  people  heard  the  gasp  or  snarl  of 
anger  that  came  through  the  little  slot  in  the  wall 
above.  Down  comes  my  lord,  unheard;  reaches 
the  room,  unheard.  But  not  alone!  For  there  are 
behind  him  two  of  his  retinue,  rough  troopers,  buff- 
jerkined  and  morion-capped  with  steel,  ready  for 


76  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

any  crime  at  their  master's  noble  bidding.  So 
silently  have  they  come  that  the  first  sound  that 
rouses  the  young  artist  and  his  sorellaccia  from  their 
little  moment  of  rapture — for  which  I  for  one  see 
little  reason  to  blame  them — and  brings  them  back 
to  conscious  life  and  the  knowledge  of  their  lot,  is 
the  slight  ring  of  the  short  sword-dagger  one  of 
them  draws  from  the  scabbard.  Their  eyes  are 
opened  now,  and  Lo  Spazzolone  sees  his  execu- 
tioners; while  Maddalena  and  I  see  a  cold,  hard  old 
face  to  which  all  pleading  for  mercy — if  there  had 
been  a  crime — would  have  been  vain;  and  which 
would  make  a  crime,  inexorably,  of  what  was  none, 
from  inborn  cruelty  and  jealous  rage.  It  is  all 
over! 

All  over !  Yes,  for  any  chance  of  life  for  Giacinto, 
for  any  chance  of  happiness  for  la  Maddalena  for 
the  rest  of  her  term  of  life.  But  it  may  give  pleas- 
ure to  you  to  know — as  it  gives  me  pleasure — how- 
ever little ! — that  our  young  painter,  who  was  strong 
and  active  as  a  wild  cat,  got  at  the  old  man's  wicked 
throat  and  wellnigh  choked  him  before  his  assassins 
could  cover  the  three  or  four  steps  between  them; 
and  before  the  one  whom  Maddalena  did  not  stop 
— for  she  flung  herself  bodily  on  the  man  with  the 
sword — could  strike  with  a  mace  he  had.  And  the 
blow  fell  on  the  olive-tinted  neck  I  had  loved  so 
well,  and  the  poor  Giacinto  fell  with  a  thud  and 


A  LIKELY  STORY  77 

lay,  killed  or  senseless.  But  the  old  Devil  had  felt 
his  grip  with  a  vengeance,  and  the  two  men-at-arms 
looked  pleased,  and  lifted  up  and  bore  away  the 
seeming  dead  Gacinto  with  admiration.  The  old 
man  choked  awhile,  and  la  Maddalena  remained 
marble-white  as  a  new  cut  block  at  Massa  Carrara, 
and  as  motionless,  until  her  old  owner  had  drunk 
some  wine  and  done  his  choking;  and  then  he 
pinched  her  tender  white  wrist  savagely — I  could 
show  you  where  he  made  his  mark,  but  I  cannot 
move — and  drew  her  away,  saying,  "  You  come 
with  me,  young  mistress !  "  But  first  he  goes  and 
stands  opposite  the  picture,  still  gripping  her  wrist. 
Then  says  he,  "  Non  c'e  male  }> — not  bad — and  leads 
her  away,  dumb.  And  they  leave  me  alone  in  the 
Stanza  delle  Quattro  Corone,  and  I  hear  the  door 
locked  from  the  outside.  And  the  night  comes,  and 
I  hear  the  voices  of  the  frogs  in  the  flat  land,  and 
think  of  the  boy  and  girl  that  heard  them  together 
in  that  other  old  Castello  I  remember  so  well,  but 
have  never  seen.  And  the  sun  comes  again  and 
shines  upon  some  blood  upon  the  floor.  It  is  not 
Giacinto's- — it  is  Maddalena's,  where  she  cut  herself 
on  the  man  with  the  sword. 

After  that  I  remember  no  more  till  two  men  came 
to  measure  for  the  frame  I  now  have  on.  They 
came  next  day,  accompanied  by  the  old  Marta,  who 
unlocked  the  door.  But  her  little  dog  came  with 


78  A  LIKELY  STORY 

them,  too,  and  no  sooner  had  he  run  once  all  round 
the  room,  to  see  for  cats  or  what  might  be  else,  than 
he  goes  straightway  to  the  blood-mark  on  the  floor. 
And  so  shrewd  is  he  to  guess  what  it  is — remember, 
he  had  gone  away  with  Marta  when  all  the  riot  came 
about — that  he  looks  round  from  one  to  the  other 
for  explanation,  and  tries  hard  to  speak,  as  a  dog 
does.  Whereat  each  of  the  three  also  looks  to  the 
other  two,  and  makes  believe  the  dog  is  goi\e  mad, 
to  be  making  little  compassionate  whines  and  cries, 
and  then,  going  to  each  one  in  turn  to  tell  of  it, 
touching  them  with  his  fore-paws,  and  then  back 
again  to  the  blood.  But  none  would  give  him  a 
good  word,  and  as  for  la  Marta,  she  must  needs 
slap  him,  to  the  best  of  her  withered  power,  on  his 
clean-shaved  body;  which  very  like  hurt  but  little, 
but  the  poor  dog  cried  out  upon  the  injustice !  For 
he  knew  well  this  that  he  smelt  was  blood.  As  I 
believe,  so  did  the  three  of  them;  however,  in  that 
household  each  knew  that  blood,  anywhere,  was  best 
not  seen  by  whoever  wished  to  keep  his  own  in  his 
veins.  So  they  took  the  measure  for  my  frame, 
and  went  their  way.  And  presently,  when  they 
have  gone,  back  comes  the  old  woman,  but  no  dog, 
and  brings  with  her  burnt  wood-ash,  such  as  the 
fire  leaves  in  the  open  grate,  quite  white  and  dry. 
And  she  makes  a  heap  on  the  blood-stain  with  it, 
and  water  added,  and  goes  away  again  and  locks 


79 

the  door  without,  as  before.  After  which  the  sun 
goes  many  times  across  the  brick  floor,  stopping 
always  to  look  well  upon  the  blood-spot;  and  the 
night  comes  back,  and  I  see  a  little  sharp  edge  of 
silver  in  the  sky,  beyond  the  window-grating,  and  I 
remember  that  it  was  the  new  moon,  in  the  days  of 
the  old  Castello,  and  I  say  to  myself,  now  I  shall 
see  it  grow  again,  as  it  grew  in  those  old  days  when 
Giacinto  watched  it  with  me.  And  it  grows  to 
be  a  half-moon  before  la  Marta  comes  again  and 
gathers  up  the  ashes,  and  leaves  the  floor  clean. 
But  then  I  know  they  will  soon  come  with  the 
frame.  So  it  happens ;  and  then  I  am  in  my  frame 
and  am  carried  away  to  the  great  old  Castle  in  the 
Apennines,  and  hanged  upon  the  wall  in  the  State 
banqueting-room ;  and  after  a  while,  I  know  not 
how  long,  the  old  Duke  comes  to  see,  and  is  pleased 
to  approve.  And  my  Maddalena  comes,  or  rather 
he  leads  her,  stark  dumb,  and  white  as  the  ashes 
that  dried  up  the  drops  of  her  blood  upon  the 
floor. 

And  then  day  follows  day,  and  each  day  my  lord 
leads  a  thinner  and  a  whiter  Maddalena  to  the  head 
of  his  board,  and  each  day  she  answers  him  less 
when  he  speaks  to  her,  which  he  does  with  an  evil 
discourtesy  when  none  other  is  there  to  check  it; 
and  a  courtesy,  even  worse  to  bear,  when  they  are 
in  the  presence  of  the  household,  or  of  noble  guests 


80  A  LIKELY  STORY 

on  a  visit.  He  sees,  as  I  see,  that  her  eyes  are 
always  fixed  on  me,  as  I  hang  behind  his  chair,  for 
well  he  knows  she  would  not  be  giving  him  her  eyes 
— not  she !  So  he  tells  the  primo  maggiordomo,  who 
is  subservient,  but  dropsical,  and  goes  on  a  stick, 
to  see  that  I  am  moved  to  a  place  in  a  bay  to  the 
left  of  his  mistress;  the  old  Devil  having  indeed 
chosen  this  place  cleverly  so  that  la  Maddalena 
might  not  easily  see  me  by  turning  her  eyes  only; 
but  when  she  gives  a  little  side  turn  to  her  head  as 
well,  then  she  may  see  me  plainly.  And,  of  course, 
it  fell  out  as  the  cunning  fox  had  foreseen,  and  the 
poor  Maddalena's  eyes  wandered  more  and  more  to 
her  picture,  and  then,  as  they  came  back,  they 
would  be  caught  in  the  cold  gaze  that  came  at  her 
from  the  other  table-end,  and  would  fall  down  to 
look  on  the  food  she  was  fain  to  send  away  un- 
tasted.  This  goes  on  awhile,  and  then  my  Duke 
speaks  out  when  they  are  alone.  Pie  knows,  he 
says,  what  all  these  sly  glances  mean — all  this 
furtive  peeping  round  the  corner — we  are  hankering 
after  that  old  lover  of  ours,  are  we  not  ?  And  there 
are  things  it  is  not  easy  to  forget — ho,  ho!  And 
he  laughs  out  at  the  poor  girl  and  her  sorrow.  But 
she  is  outspoken,  as  one  in  despair  may  well  be,  and 
says  to  her  old  tormentor  that  if  he  means  by  the 
word  "  lover "  that  she  has  in  any  way  whatever 
made  light  of  her  wifely  duty  to  his  lordship,  it  is 


A  LIKELY  STORY  81 

false,  and  he  knows  it;  for  the  boy  was  no  more 
to  her  than  any  foster-brother  might  have  been, 
brought  up  with  her  from  the  cradle.  Only,  let  him 
not  suppose,  for  all  that,  that  she  held  him,  husband 
as  he  was,  and  all  his  lands  and  hoarded  wealth, 
and  titles  from  his  Holiness  the  Pope,  one  tithe  as 
dear  as  the  shoelace  or  the  button  on  the  coat  of 
the  boy  he  had  murdered.  On  that  his  Eccellenza 
sniggered  and  was  amused.  "  I  should  have  thought 
so  much,"  says  he,  "  from  the  good  round  buss  you 
gave  him  at  parting.  But  who  has  told  you  your 
so  precious  treasure  is  dead?  None  has  said  so  to 
me,  so  far.  When  last  I  heard  of  him,  he  was  down 
below,  beneath  your  feet,  '  con  rispetto  parlando' '' 
which  is  a  phrase  folk  use  in  Tuscany,  not  to  be 
too  plain-spoken  for  delicacy  about  feet  and  the 
like. 

But  now  I  must  tell  you  something  the  old  mis- 
creant meant  when  he  said  this,  and  pointed  down 
below  the  great  table,  which  else  might  be  hard  to 
understand.  For  this  great  table  stood  over  a  trap 
or  well-hole  in  the  floor,  and  this  well-hole  went 
straight  down  to  the  dungeons  under  the  Castle, 
where,  if  all  tales  told  were  true,  there  was  still 
living  a  very  old  man  who  was  first  incarcerated 
forty  years  since,  and  had  lived  on,  God  knows  how ! 
And  others  as  well,  though  little  was  known  of  them 
by  those  above  in  the  daylight.  But  this  old  man 


82  A  LIKELY  STORY 

had  made  some  talk,  seeing  that  he  was  first  con- 
fined there  in  the  days  of  the  old  Duke,  our  Duke's 
father,  a  just  man  and  well-beloved,  for  a  crime 
committed  near  by,  on  the  evidence  of  his  wife  and 
his  brother.  Of  whom,  having  lived  some  while  par 
amours,  the  brother  having  died  by  poison,  and  the 
woman  having  died  in  sanctity  as  Mother  Superior 
of  the  nuns  of  Monte  Druscolo  in  Umbria,  it  was 
known  that  the  latter  made  confession  on  her  death- 
bed that  her  paramour  was  truly,  but  unknown  to 
her,  the  author  of  the  crime  for  which  his  brother 
was  condemned.  Now,  this  came  to  her  knowledge 
by  a  chance,  later.  On  which  she,  learning  with 
resentment  the  concealment  of  this  from  herself,  and 
seeing  that  the  victim  of  this  crime  had  been  a 
young  girl  under  her  care  and  charge,  had  com- 
passed the  death  of  the  real  culprit  for  justice'  sake, 
but  had  not  thought  it  well  to  proclaim  the  truth 
about  her  husband's  innocence,  for  she  might  have 
found  it  hard  to  look  him  in  the  face.  So  he  was 
left  where  he  was,  the  more  that  it  was  thought  he 
might  die  if  brought  out  into  the  sun;  and,  indeed, 
lie  was  very  old,  and  the  Holy  Abbess  in  extreme 
old  age  when  she  made  her  confession.  But  he  is 
aot  in  my  tale,  nor  she,  .and  I  speak  of  him  only 
because  of  the  chance  by  which  he  made  known  to 
me  the  existence  of  this  same  well-hole  beneath  my 
lord's  dining-table.  For  it?  was  the  telling  of  this 


A  LIKELY  STORY  83 

story  at  the  banquet  that  caused  it  to  be  spoken  of, 
and  also  how  in  old  days  its  use  was  to  be  opened 
after  the  meal,  that  the  guests  might  of  their  genti- 
lezza  throw  what  they  had  not  cared  to  eat  them- 
selves to  the  prisoners  below.  And  the  Prince 
Cosmo  dei  Medici,  who  was  graciously  present,  was 
pleased  to  say  it  would  have  been  a  pretty  tale  for 
the  great  Boccaccio — or  perhaps  our  good  Ser 
Bojardo  would  try  his  hand  upon  it  ? 

But  now  you  may  see,  plain  enough,  what  the 
wicked  old  man  meant  when  he  pointed  down  in 
that  way.  He  thought  to  make  his  young  wife 
believe  that  her  lover — as  he  would  call  him; 
though  he  knew  the  word,  as  he  used  it,  was  a  lie — 
was  still  living,  and  that,  too,  underground,  where  a 
ray  of  light  might  hardly  penetrate  at  high-noon; 
and  almost  surely,  too,  the  victim  of  starvation  and 
tortures  she  shuddered  to  think  of;  even  for 
witches  or  Jews — aye,  even  for  heretics!  She 
could  see  the  whole  tale  in  the  cruelty  of  her  princely 
husband's  eyes;  except,  indeed,  his  victim  was 
really  dead,  slain  by  the  cruel  blow  she  herself  had 
seen;  and  seeing  it,  what  wonder  was  it  that  she 
longed  only  to  know  that  he  was  dead;  for  then 
she  could  die  too?  But  to  slip  away  and  leave 
Giacinto  still  alive! — in  a  damp  vault  with  the  old 
bones  of  those  who  had  died  and  been  buried  there, 
so  that  none  should  know  of  them;  and  neither 


84  A  LIKELY  STORY 

day  nor  the  coming  of  night,  but  only  one  long 
darkness,  and  not  one  word  from  her,  and  ignorance 
of  whether  she  herself  still  lived  or  died.  Surely, 
if  she  were  to  die  and  leave  him  thus  in  ignorance, 
her  ghost  would  rise  from  the  grave  to  be  beside 
him  in  the  darkness  of  his  dungeon;  and  then  how 
her  heart  would  break  to  speak  with  him,  and  be 
— as  might  chance — half-heard,  and  serve  only  to 
add  a  new  terror  to  his  loneliness. 

Such  things  I  could  guess  she  felt  in  her  heart.  I 
could  not  feel  them  now  myself,  not  being  la  Madda- 
lena  as  she  was  at  this  moment,  I  am  still,  as  I  was 
then,  the  Maddalena  as  she  laughed  back,  from  the 
dais  she  sat  on,  her  delight  in  response  to  the 
pleasure  in  her  young  painter's  eye;  and  all  she 
became  after  is — to  me — like  a  tale  she  might  have 
heard,  or  some  sad  pretty  ballad  one  gives  a  tear 
to  and  forgets.  But  I  can  fancy,  and  maybe  you 
can  too,  how  her  whole  young  soul  was  wrenched 
as  she  flung  herself  at  her  old  tormentor's  feet,  and 
besought  him  in  words  that  I  would  myself  have 
wept  for  gladly — had  God  not  made  me  as  I  am — 
to  tell  her  truly,  only  to  tell  her,  was  he  living  or 
dead  ?  She  would  ask  no  more  than  just  that  much 
of  his  clemency.  What  wrong  had  she  done  him? 
— what  had  Giacinto? — that  he  should  make  her 
think  the  sun  itself  a  nightmare;  for  it  would  shine 
on  her,  but  never  reach  the  black  pit  below  them, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  85 

where,  for  all  she  knew,  Giacinto  might  be  now,  at 
this  very  moment  ?  Oh,  would  he  not  tell  her  ? 
It  was  so  little  to  ask ! 

But  the  old  miscreant  had  not  paid  her  yet  for 
that  kiss,  and  he  would  have  his  account  discharged 
in  full.  So  he  takes  her  face  in  his  two  old  hands, 
and  pats  her  on  the  cheek,  and  tells  her,  smiling,  to 
be  of  good  cheer,  for  she  will  never  know  any  more 
of  the  young  maestro,  nor  whether  he  be  alive  or 
dead.  But  if  she  wishes  to  throw  down  some  dainty 
titbits  from  the  dinner-leavings,  on  the  chance  they 
shall  reach  the  lips  she  kissed,  why  it  is  but  telling 
Raouf  and  Stefano  to  lift  the  trap.  It  may  be  a 
bit  rusty,  but  if  it  were  oiled  on  the  hinges  this  time, 
the  less  trouble  the  next !  At  this  la  Duchessa  gave 
a  long  shriek,  holding  her  head  tight  on,  on  either 
side,  and  then  fell  backward  on  the  floor,  and  lay  so, 
stark  motionless.  And  then  my  great  Duke  seats 
himself  on  the  nearest  chair;  and  he  has  in  his 
hand  his  crutched  stick,  to  lean  on  against  the  gout 
in  his  foot.  He  takes  it  in  his  left  hand,  and  just 
digs  with  it  at  the  girl's  body  on  the  ground,  either 
to  rouse  her  or  see  if  she  be  dead.  But  she  does  not 
move,  and  he  has  her  carried  away  to  bed;  and  his 
face  is  contented,  as  is  that  of  a  man  who  has 
worked  well  and  deserved  his  fee. 

I  wish  I  could  remember  more  of  this  old  tale  of 
four  hundred  years  ago,  but  I  had  no  chance  to  do 


86  A  LIKELY  STORY 

so,  for  after  the  scene  I  have  just  described  the 
noble  Duke,  hobbling  a  short  space  about  the  hall, 
brings  up  short  just  facing  the  bay  where  I  have 
been  hanged  by  his  orders,  to  spite  la  Maddalena; 
and  then,  after  choking  a  little — as  indeed  he  often 
did  since  that  fierce  grip  of  my  young  maestro,  Lo 
Spazzolone — he  calls  out  to  his  fat  maggiordomo, 
and  bids  him  to  see  that  I  am  removed  to  his  own 
private  room  and  hanged  under  the  picture  of 
Ganymede.  But  now  he  must  only  take  it  down 
and  remove  it  to  the  old  stone  chamber,  where  the 
figs  are  put  to  dry  on  trays,  and  so  leave  it,  to  be 
hanged  in  his  room  when  he  is  away  at  Rome,  as 
will  be  shortly.  So  he  hobbles  away  and  I  hear 
him  getting  slowly  up  the  little  stair  that  goes  to 
his  private  room,  and  his  attendants  following  him. 
The  dropsical  maggiordomo  stays  to  see  that  another 
man  should  come,  with  a  ladder  and  a  boy,  to  help, 
and  they  get  me  down  from  my  hooks,  and  carry 
me  off;  and  I  can  smell  the  dried  figs,  and  the  stoia 
that  is  rolled  up  in  a  stack,  and  the  empty  wine- 
flasks.  But  I  can  see  nothing,  for  they  place  me 
with  my  face  against  the  wall,  and  cover  me  over 
with  a  sacking;  and  I  can  hear  little  more;  and 
then  the  great  door  clangs  to  and  is  locked,  and  I 
am  alone  in  the  dark,  without  feeling  or  measure- 
ment of  time,  and  only  catching  faint  sounds  from 
far-off. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  87 

I  could  guess,  rather  than  hear,  the  sound  of  a 
footstep  when  one  came,  rarely  enough,  in  the  long 
corridor  without.  I  could  feel  its  rhythm  in  the 
shaken  floor,  but  I  could  be  scarcely  said  to  hear  it. 
I  was  aware  of  a  kind  of  scratching  close  to  me,  that 
may  have  been  some  kind  of  beetle  or  scorpion,  but 
of  course  it  was  quite  invisible.  There  was  one  sort 
of  scaraffaggio  that  would  come,  even  between  me 
and  the  wall  one  time,  and  make  a  noise  like  a 
thousand  whirlwinds,  and  beat  against  me  with  his 
wings,  and  I  should  have  liked  to  be  able  to  ask  him 
to  come  often.  But  he  seemed  not  to  care  about 
me;  and  I  could  just  hear  him  boom  away  in  the 
darkness,  joyous  at  heart  and  happy  in  his  freedom. 
Oh,  if  he  could  have  known  how  different  was  my 
lot!  I  thought  of  how  he  would  float  out  into  the 
sunlight,  whirring  all  the  while  like  the  wheels  of  the 
great  orologio  at  the  old  Castello  when  Era  Poco  let 
it  run  down  at  noon  so  that  he  might  reset  it  fair 
from  the  sundial  on  the  wall  in  the  Cortile  where 
the  well  was — our  well ! 

It  may  have  been  days,  or  it  may  have  been 
weeks  or  months,  before  a  change  came,  and  I 
again  heard  human  voices.  But  it  would  not  be 
longer  than  two  or  three  months  at  most ;  seeing  that 
it  was  immediately,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  on 
the  top  of  a  little  chance  that  is  dear  to  my  memory 
now,  after — so  I  gather — some  four  hundred  years. 


88  A  LIKELY  STORY 

For  a  sweet  firefly  came,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
between  me  and  the  dry  wall,  and  paused  and  hung 
a  moment  in  the  air  that  I  might  get  a  sight  of  his 
beauty.  You  have  seen  them  in  the  corn,  how  they 
stop  to  think,  and  then  shoot  on  ahead,  each  to  seek 
his  love,  or  hers:  so  it  is  taught  by  those  who  say 
they  know,  and  may  be  truly.  This  one  also  must 
needs  go  on,  though  I  would  have  prayed  him  to 
stay,  that  I  might  be  his  love.  Yet  this  could  not 
be,  for  neither  did  I  know  his  tongue,  nor  was  aught 
else  fitting.  So  he  went  away  and  left  me  sad- 
hearted.  He  was  a  spot  of  light  between  a  gloom 
behind  and  a  gloom  before,  even  as  the  Star  of 
Bethlehem. 

But  about  this  that  I  was  telling  of.  I  had  a 
sense  of  half-heard  turmoil  without.  Then  the  lock 
in  the  door,  and  the  imprecations  of  a  man  that 
could  not  turn  the  key.  He  swore  roundly  tet  him 
who  made  it,  and  at  all  locksmiths  soever,  as  persons 
who  from  malevolence  scheme  to  exclude  all  folk 
from  everywhere;  and  I  wished  to  rebuke  him  for 
his  injustice,  for  how  can  a  locksmith  do  less  than 
make  a  key  ?  And  it  was  for  him  to  choose  the  right 
key,  not  to  keep  on  twisting  at  the  wrong  one,  and 
swearing,  which  is  what  he  was  doing.  But  he  was 
a  noisy,  blustering  person,  for  when  he  did  get  in, 
being  helped  to  the  right  key  by  a  clever  young  boy 
who  saw  his  error,  he  was  much  enraged  with  that 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  89 

boy  for  telling  him;  and  he  was  ill-satisfied  with 
such  a  place  as  this  to  stow  away  the  furniture,  but 
he  supposed  they  must  make  it  do. 

Then  came  much  moving  in  of  goods.  And  I 
could  gather  this,  but  no  more,  from  the  conversa- 
tion of  those  who  brought  it  in — that  it  was  the 
furniture  of  some  one  who  was  little  loved,  and  only 
spoken  of  as  "  he  "  or  "  il  Vecchiostro  " — that  he 
was  gone  on  a  journey,  and  much  they  cared  how 
soon  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  it.  The  boy,  who  was 
young  and  inquisitive,  then  asking  whither  this  was 
that  he  had  gone,  they  told  him  with  a  laugh  that 
it  was  to  his  oldest  friend,  another  like  himself;  to 
whom  he  had  given  his  whole  soul,  and  who  would 
not  care  to  part  with  him  in  a  hurry.  They  hoped 
he  would  have  a  cool  bed  to  sleep  in.  And  when  the 
boy  hoped  this  too,  they  were  very  merry.  But  they 
worked  hard,  and  brought  in  a  great  mass  of  furni- 
ture, which  they  stacked  against  the  wall  where  I 
was,  so  that  I  was  quite  hidden  away.  There 
would  be  new  fittings  all  through  the  Castle  now, 
they  said.  But  one  said  no — no!  it  would  only  be 
in  the  Vecchiostro's  own  private  rooms.  "  'Tis  done 
that  he  should  be  soonest  forgotten,"  said  one  of 
them.  But  it  was  only  just  when  they  had  brought 
in  the  last  of  it  that  this  same  one  said  that  if  ever 
he — this  Vecchiostro — came  back  from  Hell  there 
would  be  all  his  gear  ready  for  him.  And  then  I 


90  A  LIKELY  STORY 

saw  this  was  some  dead  man's  property  that  his 
successor  would  have  put  out  of  his  sight. 

Then  says  my  young  boy  to  his  father,  who  was 
the  man  who  had  sworn  at  the  key,  why  did  they 
not  take  the  Signora's  portrait  down  instead  of 
leaving  it  there,  because  everyone  loved  her;  and 
for  his  part,  she  kissed  him  once,  and  said  he  was 
carino.  Then  says  his  father,  what  portrait? 
And  he  answers,  "  In  there — behind."  For  he  had 
peeped  in  round  my  frame  thinking  he  knew  me 
again;  being  in  fact  the  same  that  had  helped  to 
get  me  down  in  the  banqueting-hall,  how  long  since 
I  could  not  say.  But  his  father  calls  him  a  young 
fool  not  to  say  so  before  it  was  too  late;  and  as  for 
him,  it  was  time  for  his  supper  and  bed,  and  whoever 
else  liked  the  job  might  move  all  the  chairs  and 
tables  again  to  fish  her  ladyship  out.  And  as  all 
were  of  one  mind  they  laughed  over  this  and  went 
noisily  away.  And  the  door  was  locked  and  I 
heard  no  more.  And  the  darkness  was  darker  still 
and  the  silence  deeper.  And  I  longed  for  the 
scaraffaggio  to  come  and  whirr  once  more,  and  for 
the  sweet  light  of  the  lucciola.  But  there  was  none 
such  for  me.  And  my  Maddalena  must  be  surely 
dead,  I  thought,  else  that  young  boy  would  tell  her 
I  was  here,  and  she  would  come  to  find  the 
picture  Giacinto  painted  of  her  in  that  merry  time. 
But  I  waited  for  her  voice  in  vain,  and  had 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  91 

nothing    for    myself    but    the    darkness    and    the 
silence. 

Just  as  the  diver  holds  his  breath  and  longs  for 
the  sudden  air  that  he  must  surely  meet — in  a 
moment — in  another  moment! — so  I  held  as  it 
were  the  breath  of  expectation,  and  believed  in  the 
coming  of  those  who  could  not  but  seek  me;  for  at 
first  I  felt  certain  they  would  come.  They  would 
never  leave  me  here,  to  decay!  But  there  came  no 
voice,  no  glimmer  of  light,  and  I  fell  into  a  stupor 
in  which  all  memory  grew  dim,  even  that  of  my 
Maddalena. 

What  I  suffered  through  that  long  period  of 
silence  and  darkness  I  cannot  tell,  nor  could  you 
understand.  The  prisoner  in  his  solitude  is  grateful 
for  each  thing  that  enables  him  to  note  the  flight  of 
time;  and  the  fewer  such  things  are  the  drearier  is 
the  sameness  of  his  lot.  Can  you  imagine  it  if  they 
were  all  removed — a  condition  of  simple  existence 
in  black  space,  with  no  means  of  marking  time  at 
all?  Would  you  become,  on  that  account,  un- 
conscious altogether  of  weariness  from  the  long 
unalleviated  hours  ?  No,  indeed !  Take  my  word 
for  it.  Rather,  you  would  find  it,  as  I  found  it,  a 
state  of  bondage  such  as  one  would  long  and  pray 
might  be  the  lot  of  such  as  had  been,  in  this  life, 
devils  against  the  harmless;  but  going  on  through 


92  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

all  eternity,  no  nearer  the  end  now  than  when  it 
started  countless  ages  ago,  an  absolute  monotone 
of  dulled  sense  without  insensibility — even  pain  it- 
self almost  an  alleviation. 

That  is  what  my  life,  if  you  can  call  it  life,  was 
to  me  through  all  that  term;  but,  as  thought  is 
dumb,  though  I  know  the  time  goes  on,  how  long 
it  goes  on  I  know  not.  When  I  next  hear  human 
speech,  the  voices  are  new  and  the  words  strange 
and  barbarous.  Also,  when  I  am  taken  from  the 
wall  and  turned  round  to  the  light,  I  can  see 
nothing,  and  I  know  not  why.  Perhaps  it  is  all 
dark  here  at  all  times,  and  they  have  brought  no 
light.  I  shall  see,  though,  well  enough  when  I  am 
hanged  up  under  Ganymede,  and  see  my  bad  old 
Duke  again,  and  even  my  other  self,  my  Maddalena. 
I  have  a  longing  on  me  to  see  her  once  more,  and  to 
see  her  more  like  me,  if  it  may  be.  It  seems  so 
long!  So  much  longer  than  the  time  when  I  was 
left  alone  in  the  Stanza  delle  Quattro  Cor  one.  But 
what  you  may  find  hard  to  understand  is  this,  that 
though  I  could  not  know  how  long  this  dreadful 
waking  sleep  had  been,  neither  could  I  be  sure  it 
had  not  been  a  few  hours  only.  I  now  know,  for  I 
have  learned  since,  that  it  was  over  three  hundred 
years.  Yet  when  the  end  came  it  found  me  not 
without  a  hope  of  Maddalena;  or  if  not  Maddalena, 
at  least  the  Duke. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  93 

But  I  do  not  see  them,  either  of  them.  Nor  old 
Marta  Zan  and  her  little  dog.  Nor  the  dropsical 
old  maggiordomo.  That  there  is  no  Giacinto  is  little 
wonder  to  me.  For  I  believe  him  dead,  killed  by 
that  fell  blow  on  the  olive  neck  I  loved  so  well,  just 
behind  the  ear.  I  wonder,  though,  that  I  see  none 
of  the  others.  But  indeed  I  have  much  ado  to  see 
anything.  All  is  in  a  mist  of  darkness. 

Also,  I  am  presently  stunned  by  the  clash  of  many 
voices.  I  can  catch  from  the  wTords  of  those  who 
speak  Maddalena's  language,  the  tongue  that  I  can 
follow,  that  there  is  a  great  wranglement  over  me 
and  my  sale  price.  For  I  am  to  be  sold,  and  the 
foreigners  who  wish  to  buy  me  are  loud  in  their 
dispraise  of  me;  so  much  so  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand why  they  should  wish  to  possess  me  at  all. 
In  fact,  they  do  actually  go  away  after  much  heated 
discussion,  speaking  most  scornfully  of  pictures  as 
things  no  man  in  his  senses  would  ever  buy,  and  of 
pictures  with  frames  like  mine  as  the  most  valueless 
examples.  I  gather  all  this  from  repetitions  made 
by  others,  in  Maddalena's  tongue,  nearly  but  not 
exactly. 

Presently  back  comes  one  of  them  to  say  he  will 
go  to  six  hundred  francs,  but  not  a  penny  more. 
Then  says  a  woman's  voice,  "  Ah,  Signore !  Six 
hundred  and  fifty !  "  Then  he,  six  hundred  and 
twenty-five.  And  then  some  price  between  the 


94  A  LIKELY  STORY 

two.  And  so  we  are  agreed  at  last.  And  I  am  to 
be  put  in  a  box  and  sent  to  a  place  whose  name  I 
have  never  heard,  that  sounds  like  L'Ombra,  a  name 
that  frightens  me,  for  it  sounds  like  the  Inferno  of 
the  great  poet,  Dante. 

But  I  should  tell  you  that,  before  this  riot,  and 
noise,  and  disputation  over  me  and  my  price,  I  had 
heard  the  unpacking  and  removal  of  the  great  stack 
of  furniture  that  hid  me.  Only,  as  the  persons  who 
removed  it  have  no  interest  for  us,  and  did  not  seem 
from  their  conversation  to  be  especially  cultivated 
or  intelligent,  but  rather  the  reverse,  I  have  not 
said  anything  of  them,  nor  of  their  valuations  in 
lire  of  each  article  as  it  was  brought  to  light.  Their 
voices  were  the  very  first  that  I  heard;  but  though 
their  words  sounded  strange  to  me,  they  only  made 
me  think  that  maybe  they  were  from  Milan  or 
Genoa  or  some  other  place  in  Italy.  I  should  not 
have  guessed  them  Tuscans;  that  is  all.  Indeed, 
I  hardly  distinguished  much  of  what  they  said  until 
they  had  removed  the  last  of  the  furniture  and  I 
was  turned  round  to  the  light.  Then  I  saw  things 
in  a  cloud,  and  heard  indistinctly.  I  made  out, 
however,  that  I  was  thick  with  dust,  and  must  be 
brought  out  and  cleaned  before  anyone  could  see 
what  I  was  like.  Then  I  was  carried  away  down 
some  stairs,  and  in  the  end  I  was  aware,  but  dimly, 
as  in  a  dream,  that  I  was  again  in  the  great  chamber 


A  LIKELY  STORY  95 

where  I  last  saw  la  Maddalena  lying  on  the  ground 
insensible,  while  the  old  Duke  prodded  at  her  with 
a  stick.  I  could  see  there  were  many  people  in  the 
room,  talking  volubly.  But  I  could  not  catch  their 
words  well  until  a  Signora,  who  seemed  to  take  the 
lead,  wiped  my  face  over  with  a  wet  sponge;  and 
then  I  heard  more.  Her  voice  was  clearest,  and 
what  she  said  was  "  Ecco,  Signori!  Now  you  can 
see  the  ear  quite  plain.  Ma  com'e  bella!  Bella 
bella!" — And  then  it  was  I  came  to  hear  all  the 
clamour  of  voices  of  a  sudden. 

Then  follows  all  the  bargaining  I  told  you  of. 
The  Signora's  husband  would  not  sell  an  old  picture 
— not  he! — for  a  thousand  pounds  in  gold;  not  till 
all  the  dirt  was  off  and  he  could  see  it  fairly.  All 
applauded  this,  and  said  in  chorus  neither  would 
they!  Who  could  tell  what  might  not  be,  under 
the  dirt?  However,  they  knew  so  little  about  it 
that  they  would  not  mind  buying  this  one,  on  the 
chance.  But  for  a  decently  reasonable  price — say 
five  thousand  Italian  lire.  On  which  the  owner 
said,  "Come  mai!  E  pochissimo!"  Then  the 
Signori  Inglesi  took  another  tone,  and  would  have 
none  of  the  picture,  nor  any  picture,  at  any  price ! 
They  would  not  know  where  to  hang  it.  They  did 
not  like  pictures  on  their  walls.  All  the  walls  were 
covered  with  pictures  already,  all  favourites,  that 
must  not  be  moved.  But  why  need  I  tell  you  all 


96  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

this?  You  have  heard  folk  make  bargains,  and  the 
lies  they  tell. 

The  English  Signori  departed,  having  bought  me 
for  six  hundred  and  fifty  English  pounds.  And 
then  my  lady  and  gentleman  are  mightily  delighted, 
and  dance  about  the  room  with  joy.  Now  they  will 
go  to  Monte  Carlo  and  win  back  all  they  lost  last 
year.  Then  I  hear  them  talking  in  an  undertone, 
thus : — 

(He)  "  I  hope  they  never  suspected  it  was  none 
of  ours 

(She)  "Ah,  Dio  mio!  And  I  had  told  them  we 
were  only  inquilini  " — that  is,  tenants. 

(He)  " Non  ti  confondi?  Don't  fret  about  that. 
They  don't  know  what  inquilini  means.  They  can 
only  say  '  mangia  bene,  quanta  cosial" 

(She)  "  Speriamo!  But  what  a  fine  lot  of  old 
furniture !  Couldn't  we  sell  some  of  it,  too  ? " 
And  this  young  Signora,  who  was  very  pretty  and 
impudent,  and  what  I  have  since  heard  called 
svelte,  danced  about  the  room  in  high  glee.  But 
the  good  gentleman  stopped  her. 

(He)  "  Troppo  pericolo!  The  fat  old  Marchesa 
would  find  out.  No,  no!  The  picture  is  quite  an- 
other thing " 

(She)  "Perche?" 

(He)  "Can't  you  see,  thickhead?  If  the  old 
strega  " — the  old  witch,  that  is — "  had  known  the 


A  LIKELY  STORY  97 

picture  was  there,  do  you  suppose  she  wouldn't  have 
had  it  out,  long  ago?  And  that  other  picture  in 
front  of  it,  with  the  eagle.  .  .  .  Don't  dance,  but 
listen !  " 

(She)  "...  Picture  in  front  of  it,  with  the 
eagle  .  .  .  yes,  go  on !  "  But  she  won't  quite  stop 
dancing,  and  makes  little  quick  tiptoe  movements, 
not  to  seem  over-subservient  and  docile. 

(He)  "  I  would  have  sold  that,  too,  only  it's  too 
big  for  safety.  This  one  will  go  in  a  small  case. 
The  famiglia  will  have  to  be  well  paid.  What  was 
it  la  Filomeua  told  you  first  of  all  about  the  room 
and  the  furniture  ?  Do  stop  that  dancing !  " 

(She)  "  There,  see  now,  I've  stopped!  But  you 
have  been  told,  once !  " 

(He)  "Then  tell  again!" 

(She)  "  It  wasn't  la  Filomena.  It  was  that  old, 
old  Prisca  who  knows  all  about  the  Castello — more 
than  the  Marchesa  herself.  She  told  me  there  was 
an  old  room  in  the  great  tower  that  had  not  been 
open  for  hundreds  of  years,  as  no  one  dared  to  go 
near  it  for  fear  of  the  wicked  old  Duke's  ghost.  I 
told  her  we  were  liberi  pensatori  " — that  is  to  say, 
free-thinkers — "  and  he  would  not  hurt  us,  and 
where  was  the  key?  We  would  not  touch  anything 

)nly  look  in !  " 

(He)  "  Won't  she  tell  about  it  all  ?  " 

(She)    "Not   till   we   go!     Besides,   she   doesn't 


98 

know.  La  Filomena  won't  tell  her;  she  knows  I 
know  all  about  her  and  Ugo  Pistrucci.  And  she's 
the  only  person  that  goes  near  the  old  Prisca,  who 
hasn't  been  off  her  bed  for  months.  Oh  no! 
She's  all  right.  As  for  the  man,  I  told  them 
la  Prisca  said  the  mdbiglia  was  to  be  taken  out 
and  dusted  and  placed  in  the  passage.  Stia  tran- 
quillo,  mio  caro  !  " 

(He)  "  What  a  happy  chance  these  pig-headed 
rich  milords  happened  to  come  in  just  as  we  got  it. 
They  might  have  gone  before  we  found  it!  Only 
to  think  of  it !  Seicento  e  cinquante  lire  .  .  . !  " 

And  so  they  went  on  rejoicing,  and  thinking  of 
new  schemes,  and  how  they  would  get  me  packed 
off  the  very  next  day,  and  not  a  soul  in  the  Castle 
would  ever  know  I  had  ever  been  there.  They  were 
certainly  very  bad,  unprincipled  adventurers.  You 
should  have  heard  them  talk  of  what  fun  they  would 
have  telling  the  old  Marchesa  about  the  great  dis- 
covery of  treasures  they  had  made,  and  the  care 
they  had  taken  nothing  should  be  lost.  And  then 
who  knows  but  she  might  trust  them  to  get  a  sale 
for  all  her  old  rubbish  in  England,  and  what  a  lot 
of  money  they  might  make,  with  a  little  discretion. 
If  I  had  remained  there  I  should  have  been  longing 
always  for  a  chance  of  telling  the  old  strega,  as  they 
called  her,  what  a  nice  couple  she  had  let  her  Castle 
to  for  the  summer  months.  For  I  am  convinced, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  99 

not  only  that  they  were  thieves,  but  that  they  were 
not  even  lawfully  married.  However  it  may  have 
been,  I  saw  no  more  of  them.  For  next  day  the 
same  man  that  had  done  the  removal  of  the  furni- 
ture came  with  a  box,  and  I  was  carefully  packed, 
and  saw  nothing  more,  and  distinguished  little 
sound,  for  weeks  it  may  have  been,  even  months. 
As  the  solidity  of  the  box  absorbed  all  sight  and 
hearing,  and  I  knew  nothing  till  I  found  myself  on 
an  easel  in  a  sort  of  Studio  in  a  town  that  I  at  once 
perceived  to  be  L'Ombra.  For  what  else  could  it 
have  been  ? 

At  this  point  Mr.  Pelly,  who  had  been  listening 
intently,  interrupted  the  speaker.  "  I  think  you 
have  got  the  name  of  the  place  wrong,"  he  said.  "  I 
imagine  it  must  have  been  London — Londra — the 
English  Metropolis — not  L'Ombra.  The  sounds  are 
very  similar,  and  easy  to  mistake." 

"  Possibly  I  was  misled  by  the  darkness.  It  made 
the  name  seem  so  appropriate.  But  it  was  not 
exactly  night.  There  was  a  window  near  me,  and 
I  could  see  there  was  a  kind  of  yellow  smoke  over 
everything.  But  there  was  music  in  the  street, 
and  children  appeared  to  be  running  and  shouting. 
Other  things  gave  me  the  impression  the  time  had 
been  intended  for  morning,  but  that  something  had 
come  in  the  way.  It  was  a  terrible  place,  much 
like  to  that  dark  third  circle  in  Hell,  where 


100  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Dante  and  Virgilio  saw  the  uncouth  monster  Cer- 
berus. 

"  But  let  us  forget  it !  Why  should  such  a  place 
be  remembered  or  spoken  of?  I  was  there  for  no 
great  length  of  time:  long  enough  only  for  the 
picture-cleaner,  in  whose  workshop  I  was,  to  remove 
the  obscurations  of  four  hundred  years,  and  safeguard 
me  with  a  glass  from  new  deposits.  For  I  under- 
stood him  to  say  that  I  should  be  just  as  bad  as 
ever  in  a  very  short  space  of  time,  in  this  beastly 
sooty  hole,  but  for  such  protection. 

"  And  yet  this  place  was  not  entirely  bad,  nor  in 
darkness  at  all  times,  for  at  intervals  a  phenomenon 
would  occur  which  I  supposed  to  be  a  peculiarity  of 
the  climate,  causing  the  lady  of  the  house  to  say, 
1  There — the  sun's  coming  out.  I  shall  get  my 
Things  on.  Are  you  going  to  stay  for  ever  in  the 
house,  and  get  fustier  and  fustier,  or  are  you  going 
to  have  a  turn  on  the  Embankment?  You  might 
answer  me,  instead  of  smoking,  Reginald ! '  But  I 
noticed  that  this  phenomenon,  whatever  its  cause, 
never  seemed  to  attain  fruition,  the  lady  always 
saying  she  knew  how  it  would  be — they  had  lost 
all  the  daylight.  I  only  repeat  her  words.  I 
observed  another  thing  worthy  of  remark,  that  it 
very  seldom  held  up.  I  am  again  repeating  a 
phrase  that  was  to  me  only  a  sound.  I  have  no 
idea  what  '  it '  was,  nor  what  it  held  up,  nor  why. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  101 

I  am  only  certain  that  the  performance  was  a  rare 
one,  however  frequently  it  was  promised.  But  the 
gentleman  who  restored  me  seemed  to  have  confi- 
dence in  its  occurrence,  conditionally  on  his  taking 
his  umbrella.  Otherwise,  he  said,  it  was  cocksure 
to  come  down  cats  and  dogs,  and  they  would  be  in 
for  a  cab,  and  he  only  had  half-a-crown. 

"  These  persons  were  of  no  interest  in  themselves, 
and  I  should  never  remember  or  think  of  them  at  all 
but  for  having  been  the  unwilling  witness  of  a 
conjugal  misunderstanding,  which  may  quite  pos- 
sibly have  led  to  a  permanent  breach  between  them. 
It  is  painful  to  think  that  the  whole  difference  might 
have  been  made  in  the  lady's  jealous  misinterpreta- 
tion of  her  husband's  behaviour  towards  a  maiden 
named  la  Sera — who,  as  I  understood,  came  in 
by  the  week  at  nine  shillings,  and  always  had  her 
Sunday  afternoons,  whatever  those  phrases  mean; 
no  doubt  you  will  know — if  I  had  been  able  to  add 
my  testimony  to  her  husband's  disclaimer  of  amorous 
intent.  For  it  was  most  clear  that  the  whole  thing 
was  but  an  innocent  joke  throughout,  however  ill- 
judged  and  stupid.  I  saw  the  whole  from  my  place 
on  the  easel,  and  heard  all  that  passed.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  I  longed  to  say  a  word  on  his  behalf, 
when,  some  days  later,  two  friends  paid  him  a  visit, 
who  had  evidently  been  taken  into  his  confidence, 
but  who  seemed  to  think  that  he  had  withheld 


102  A  LIKELY  STORY 

something  from  them,  not  treating  them  so  frankly 
as  old  friends  deserved.  Whereupon  he  warmly 
protested  that  his  wife  had  no  solid  ground  of  com- 
plaint against  him,  having  gone  off,  unreasonably, 
in  what  he  called  '  a  huff ' ;  but  that  he  had  just 
paid  la  Sera  her  wages  and  sent  her  packing,  so 
that  now  he  had  to  make  his  own  bed  and  black 
his  own  shoes. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  these  two  friends  showed 
only  an  equivocal  sympathy,  winking  at  each  other, 
and  each  digging  the  other  in  the  ribs  with  strange 
humorous  sounds,  as  of  a  sort  of  fowl.  Also,  they 
shook  their  hea'ds  at  their  friend,  though  not,  as 
I  think,  reproaching  him  seriously,  yet  implying 
thus,  as  by  other  things  said,  that  he  was  of  a  gay 
and  sportive  disposition  that  might  easily  be  misled 
by  the  fascinations  of  beauty,  which  they  were 
pleased  to  ascribe  to  la  Sera.  This  was,  however, 
scarcely  spoken  with  an  earnest  intent,  since  this 
maiden,  despite  the  beauty  of  her  name — for  one 
might  conceive  it  to  ascribe  to  her  the  tender 
radiance  and  sad  loveliness  of  the  sunset — was 
wanting  in  charm  of  form  and  colour,  and  had  not 
successfully  cultivated  such  other  fascinations  as 
sometimes  make  good  their  deficiency;  as  sweetness 
and  fluency  of  speech,  or  a  quick  wit,  or  even  the 
artificial  seductions  of  well-ordered  dress.  I  de- 
rived, too,  a  most  unfavourable  impression  from  a 


A  LIKELY  STORY  103 

comment  of  her  employer — to  the  effect  that  if,  when 
she  cleaned  herself  of  a  Sunday  morning,  she 
couldn't  do  it  without  making  the  whole  place  smell 
of  yellow  soap,  she  might  as  well  chuck  it  and  stop 
dirty. 

"  But  I  should  grieve  to  think  that  this  Signore's 
wife  should  have  left  him  permanently  for  so  foolish 
a  quarrel.  For,  though  their  lives  seemed  filled 
with  a  silly  sort  of  bickering,  I  believed  from  what 
I  saw  that  there  was  really  a  sort  of  love  between 
them,  and  I  cannot  conceive  that  they  will  be  any 
happier  apart.  Indeed,  had  she  been  indifferent  to 
her  husband,  could  she  have  felt  a  trivial  incon- 
stancy, implying  no  grievous  wrong,  of  such  im- 
portance? But,  indeed,  it  is  absurd  to  use  the 
word  inconstancy  at  all  in  such  a  case,  though  we 
may  condemn  the  ill-taste  of  all  vulgar  trifling  with 
the  solemn  obligations  of  conjugal  duty.  I  wish  I 
might  have  spoken,  to  laugh  in  their  faces  and  make 
a  jest  of  the  whole  affair.  But  silence  was  my  lot. 

"  I  have  hung  here,  as  I  suppose,  for  six  months 
past,  and  have  often  striven  to  speak,  but  none  has 
heard  me  till  now.  Think,  dear  Signore,  how  I 
have  suffered !  Think  how  I  have  longed  to  speak 
and  be  heard,  when  my  Madeline,  my  darling — who 
loves  me,  and  says  she  loves  me — has  talked  to  her 
great  dog  of  her  lover  that  was  killed  in  the 
war.  ." 


104  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Mr.  Pelly  interrupted.  "Are  you  referring  to 
young  Captain  Calverley  ?  "  he  said.  "  Because,  if 
so,  it  is  not  certain  that  he  is  dead.  Besides,  I  sup- 
pose you  know  that  Miss  Upwell  and  the  Captain 
were  not  engaged  ?  "  And  then  the  old  gentleman 
fancied  he  heard  a  musical  laugh  come  from  the 
picture. 

"  How  funny  and  cold  you  English  are !  "  said  the 
voice.  "  Was  I  engaged  to  my  darling,  my  love, 
that  only  time  he  pressed  me  to  his  bosom ;  that  only 
time  I  felt  his  lips  on  mine  ?  Was  I  not  the  bond- 
slave for  life  to  the  evil  heart  and  evil  will  of  that 
old  monument  of  Sin,  soaked  deep  in  every  stain  of 
Hell?  Was  I  not  called  his  wife?  Yet  my  heart 
and  my  soul  went  out  to  my  love  in  that  kiss,  and 
laughed  in  their  freedom  in  mockery  of  the  laws 
that  could  put  the  casket  that  held  them  in  bond, 
and  yet  must  perforce  leave  them  free.  And  when 
that  young  soldier  tore  himself  away  from  my 
Madeline — I  saw  them  here  myself;  there  by  the 
shiny  fish,  in  the  glass  case — was  their  parting  kiss 
less  real  than  ours  was,  that  hour  when  I  saw  him 
last,  my  own  love  of  those  years  gone  by  ?  " 

"  A — it  isn't  a  subject  I  profess  to  understand 
much  about,"  said  Mr.  Pelly.  He  blew  his  nose  and 
wiped  his  spectacles,  and  was  silent  a  moment.  Then, 
he  said,  "  But  whatever  the  sentiment  of  the  young 
lady  herself  may  be,  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 


A  LIKELY  STORY  105 

her  mother's.  In  fact,  she  has  herself  told  me  that 
she  is  most  anxious  that  it  should  not  be  supposed 
that  there  was  any  engagement.  So  I  trust — if 
you  ever  do  have  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
anyone  on  the  subject — that  you  will  be  careful  not 
to  give  the  impression  that  such  was  the  case.  I  do 
not,  perhaps,  fully  realize  the  motives  that  influence 
Lady  Upwell — a — and  Sir  George, — of  course  it's 
the  same  thing.  ..." 

Mr.  Pelly  stopped  with  a  jerk.  He  found  himself 
talking  uncomfortably  and  inexplicably  to  space, 
beside  the  embers  of  a  dying  fire,  and  in  the  distance 
he  could  hear  the  carriage  bringing  the  absentees 
back  through  the  wintry  night,  and  the  ringing 
tread  of  the  horses  on  the  hard  ground. 

"  Poor  Uncle  Christopher  all  by  himself,  and  the 
fire  out !  "  said  the  first  comer  into  the  Library.  It 
was  the  young  lady  who  came  to  see  the  Italian 
picture  at  the  restorer's  Studio  in  Chelsea,  a  little 
over  six  months  past.  She  had  changed  for  the  older 
since  then,  out  of  measure  with  the  lapse  of  time. 
But  her  face  was  beautiful — none  the  less  that  it 
was  sad  and  pale — in  the  glow  as  she  brought  the 
embers  together  to  make  life  worth  living  to  one  or 
two  more  faggots,  just  for  a  little  blaze  before  we 
went  to  bed. 

"  I  was  asleep  and  dreaming,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man. u  Such  a  queer  dream !  " 


106  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  You  must  tell  it  us  to-morrow,  Uncle  Chris- 
topher. I  like  queer  dreams."  This  young  lady, 
Madeline  TJpwell,  always  made  use  of  this  mode  of 
address,  although  the  old  gentleman  was  no  uncle  of 
hers,  but  only  a  very  old  friend  of  the  family  who 
knew  her  father  before  she  was  born,  and  called  him 
George,  which  was  his  Christian  Christian-name,  so 
to  speak,  "  Stopleigh  "  being  outside  family  recogni- 
tions— a  mere  Bartitude ! 

But  the  picture,  which  might  reasonably  have 
protested  against  Mr.  Felly's  statement,  remained 
silent.  So,  when  his  waking  judgment  set  the  whole 
down  as  a  dream,  it  was  probably  right. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  RETROSPECTIVE  CHAPTER.  HOW  FORTUNE'S  TOY  AND  THE  SPORT 
OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  ONE  OF  HIS  NURSES. 
PROSE  COMPOSITION.  LADY  UPWELL'S  MAJESTY,  AND  THE 
QUEEN'S.  NO  ENGAGEMENT.  THE  AFRICAN  WAR,  AND  JUSTI- 
FIABLE FRATRICIDE.  CAIN.  MADELINE'S  BIG  DOG  CAESAR. 

CATS.  ORMUZD  AND  AHRIMAN.  A  HANDY  LITTLE  VELDT. 
MADELINE'S  JAPANESE  KIMONO.  A  DISCUSSION  OF  THE  NA- 
TURE OF  DREAMS.  NEVER  MIND  ATHEN^US.  LOOK  AT  THE 
PROPHET  DANIEL.  SIR  STOPLEIGH's  GREAT-AUNT  DOROTHEA'S 
TWINS.  THE  CIRCULATING  LIBRARY  AND  THE  POTTED  SHRIMPS. 
HOW  MADELINE  BEAD  THE  MANUSCRIPT  IN  BED,  AND  TOOK 
CARE  NOT  TO  SET  FIRE  TO  THE  CURTAINS 

THE  story  of  Madeline,  the  young  lady  who  is  go- 
ing one  day  to  inherit  the  picture  Mr.  Pelly  thought 
he  was  talking  to  last  night,  along  with  the  Surley 
Stakes  property — for  there  is  no  male  heir — is  an 
easy  story  to  tell,  and  soon  told.  There  were  a 
many  stories  of  the  sort,  just  as  the  clock  of  last 
century  struck  its  hundred. 

Whether  the  young  Captain  Calverley,  whom  the 
picture  alluded  to,  was  a  hero  because,  when,  one 
day  in  the  hunting-field,  our  young  heiress  and  her 
quadruped  came  to  grief  over  a  fence,  he  made  his 
horse  swerve  suddenly  to  avoid  disastrous  complica- 
tions, and  thereby  came  to  greater  grief  himself, 
Mr.  Pelly,  at  any  rate,  could  form  no  judgment.  It 

107 


108  A  LIKELY  STORY 

was  out  of  his  line,  he  said.  So,  according  to  him, 
was  the  sequel,  in  which  the  sadly  mauled  mortal 
portion  of  the  young  soldier,  with  a  doubt  if  the 
immortal  portion  was  still  in  residence,  was  carried 
to  Surley  Stakes  and  qualified — though  rather 
slowly — to  resume  active  service  by  the  skill  of  the 
best  of  surgeons  and  the  assiduity  of  an  army  of 
nurses.  But,  hero  or  not,  he  was  credited  with 
heroism  by  the  young  lady,  with  all  the  natural 
consequences.  And  no  doubt  his  convalescence 
was  all  the  more  rapid  that  he  found  himself,  when 
he  recovered  his  senses  forty-eight  hours  after  his 
head  struck  the  corner  of  a  stone  wall  in  his  in- 
voluntary dismount,  in  such  very  delightful  com- 
pany, with  such  opportunities  of  improving  his 
relations  with  it.  In  fact,  the  scheme  for  his  re- 
moval must  have  developed  very  soon,  to  give  him 
a  text  for  a  sermon  to  the  effect  that  he  was  For- 
tune's Toy  and  the  Sport  of  Circumstances,  that  he 
accounted  concussion  of  the  brain  and  a  fractured 
thigh-bone  the  only  real  blessings  his  lot  had  ever 
vouchsafed  to  him,  and  that  happiness  would 
become  a  Thing  of  the  Past  as  soon  as  he  rejoined 
his  regiment.  He  would,  however,  devote  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  to  treasuring  the  memories  of  this 
little  hour  of  unalloyed  bliss,  and  hoping  that  his 
cherished  recollections  would  at  almost  the  rarest 
possible  intervals  find  an  echo  somehow  and  some- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  109 

where  that  his  adoration — badly  in  love  as  he  was — 
failed  in  finding  a  description  for,  as  the  climax  of 
a  long  sentence.  And  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well 
that  his  resources  in  prose  composition  gave  out 
when  they  did,  as  nothing  was  left  then  but  to 
become  natural,  and  say,  "  You'll  forget  all  about 
me,  Miss  Up  well,  you  know  you  will.  That's  what 
I  meant " — the  last  with  a  consciousness  that  when 
we  are  doing  prose  composition  we  are  apt  to  say 
one  thing  and  mean  another. 

Madeline  wasn't  prepared  to  be  artificial,  with 
this  young  dragoon  or  anyone  else.  She  gave  him 
the  full  benefit  of  her  large  blue  eyes — because,  you 
see,  she  had  got  him  down,  as  it  were,  and  he  couldn't 
possibly  become  demonstrative  with  a  half-healed 
fracture  of  the  thigh — and  said,  "  I  hope  I  shan't. 
I  shall  try  not  to,  anyhow."  But  this  seemed  not 
to  give  entire  satisfaction,  as  the  patient  said,  rather 
ruefully,  "  You  could,  if  you  tried,  Miss  Ilpwell!  " 
To  which  the  young  lady,  who  was  not  without  a 
mischievous  side  to  her  character,  answered,  "  Of 
course  I  could ! "  but  immediately  repented,  and 
added,  "  One  can  do  anything  one  likes,  if  one  tries 
hard  enough,  you  know !  " 

It  would  only  be  the  retelling  of  a  very  old 
story,  the  retreading  of  very  old  ground,  to  follow 
these  young  people  through  the  remainder  of  their 
interview,  which  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance 


110  A  LIKELY  STORY 

of  Madeline's  mamma;  who,  to  say  the  truth,  had 
been  getting  apprehensive  that  so  many  tetes-d-tete 
with  this  handsome  patient  might  end  seriously. 
And  though  his  family  was  good,  he  was  only  a 
younger  son;  and  she  didn't  want  her  daughter  to 
marry  a  soldier.  Fancy  "  Mad  "  being  carried  off 
to  India !  For  in  the  bosom  of  her  family  this 
most  uncomfortable  of  namelets  had  caught  on 
naturally,  without  imputation  of  Hanwell  or  Colney 
Hatch. 

However,  her  ladyship  was  too  late,  this  time.  No 
clinical  practice  of  any  Hospital  includes  kissing  or 
being  kissed  by  the  patient,  and  "  Mad  "  and  her 
lover  were  fairly  caught.  Nothing  was  left  for  it 
but  confession  at  high  tension,  and  throwing  our- 
selves on  the  mercy  of  the  Court.  But  always  with 
the  distinct  reservation  that  neither  of  us  could  ever 
love  another. 

Lady  TJpwell,  a  very  beautiful  woman  in  her  day, 
was  indulging  in  a  beautiful  sunset,  and  meant  to 
remain  fine  till  midnight.  There  was  a  gleam  of 
the  yellow  silver  of  a  big  harvest  moon  in  the  hair 
that  had  been  gold.  She  was  good,  but  very 
majestic;  in  fact,  her  majesty,  when  she  presented 
her  daughter  to  her  Queen,  competed  with  that  of 
the  latter,  which  has  passed  into  the  language.  To 
do  her  justice,  she  let  it  lapse  on  hearing  the  full 
disclosure  of  these  two  culprits,  and  had  the  presence 


A  LIKELY  STORY  111 

of  mind  to  ask  them  if  they  had  no  suspicion  that 
they  might  be  a  couple  of  young  fools,  to  fancy  they 
could  know  their  own  minds  on  so  short  an  acquaint- 
ance, etc.  For  this  was  barely  seven  weeks  after 
the  hunting-field  accident.  "  You  silly  geese !  "  she 
said.  "  Go  your  own  way — but  you'll  quarrel  in 
a  fortnight.  See  if  you  don't ! "  She  knew  all 
about  this  sort  of  thing,  though  Mr.  Pelly  didn't. 

The  latter  was  right,  however,  and  prudent,  when 
in  his  dream  he  laid  stress  on  the  wish  of  Madeline's 
parents  that  there  should  be  "  no  engagement." 
This  stipulation  seemed  to  be  accounted  by  both 
of  them — but  especially  by  the  Baronet — as  a  sort 
of  panacea  for  all  parental  responsibilities.  It  could 
not  be  reiterated  too  often.  The  consequence  was 
that  there  were  two  concurrent  determinations  of 
the  relative  positions  of  Madeline  and  the  Captain; 
one  an  esoteric  one — a  sort  of  sacramental  serv- 
ice of  perpetual  vows  of  fidelity;  the  other  the 
exoteric  proclamations  of  a  kind  of  many-headed 
town-crier,  who  went  about  ringing  his  bell  and 
shouting  that  it  was  "  distinctly  understood  that 
there  was  no  engagement."  Mr.  Felly's  repetition 
of  this  in  his  dream  may  have  had  an  intransitive 
character;  but  he  was  good  and  prudent,  just  the 
same.  How  we  behave  in  dreams  shows  whether 
the  high  qualities  we  pride  ourselves  on  are  more 
than  skin-deep. 


112  A  LIKELY  STORY 

But  all  the  efforts  of  the  exoteric  town-crier  were 
of  no  avail  against  the  esoteric  sacramental  services. 
The  most  unsettling  condition  lovers  can  have  im- 
posed upon  them — that  of  being  left  entirely  to  their 
own  devices,  and  never  stimulated  by  so  much  as  a 
hint  of  a  chaperon — failed  to  bring  about  a  coolness. 
And  when  within  a  year  after  his  accident  Jack 
Calverley  was  ordered  away  with  his  Company  to 
South  Africa,  where  war  had  already  broken  out, 
the  -sacramental  service  the  picture — or  someone — 
had  witnessed,  just  by  the  glass  case  with  the  big 
fish  in  it,  was  the  farewell  of  a  couple  of  heart- 
breaks, kept  under  by  the  upspring  of  Hope  in 
youth,  that  clings  to  the  creed  that  the  stricken 
classes,  the  mourning  classes,  are  Other  People,  and 
that  to  them  pity  shall  be  given  from  within  our 
pale  of  well-fenced  security.  It  was  a  wrench  to 
part,  certainly,  but  Jack  would  come  back,  and  be 
a  great  soldier  and  wear  medals.  And  the  Other 
People  would  die  for  their  country. 

And  then  came  the  war,  and  the  many  un- 
pleasant discoveries  that  always  come  with  a  war, 
the  most  unpleasant  of  all  being  the  discovery  of 
the  strength  of  the  enemy.  The  usual  recognitions 
of  the  obvious,  too  late ;  and  the  usual  denunciations 
of  everybody  else  for  not  having  foreseen  it  all  the 
time.  The  usual  rush  to  the  money-chest  of  un- 
exhausted Credit,  to  make  good  with  pounds 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  113 

deficiencies  shillings  spent  in  time  would  have 
supplied;  the  usual  storms  of  indignation  against 
the  incompetence  in  high  places  that  never  spent, 
in  time,  the  shillings  we  refused  to  provide.  The 
usual  war-whoops  from  sheltered  corners,  safe  out 
of  gunshot;  and  the  usual  deaths  by  scores  of  men 
on  both  sides  who  never  felt  a  pang  of  ill-feeling  to- 
each  other,  or  knew  the  cause  of  quarrel — yes,  a 
many  of  whom,  had  they  known  a  quarrel  was 
pending,  would  have  given  their  lives  to  avert  it! 
The  usual  bearing,  on  both  sides,  of  the  brunt  of  the 
whirlwind  by  those  who  never  sowed  a  wind-seed, 
and  the  usual  reaping  of  a  golden  harvest  by  the 
Judicious  Investor,  he  who  buys  and  sells,  but 
makes  and  meddles  not  with  what  he  sells  or  buys, 
measuring  its  value  alone  by  what  he  can  get  and 
must  give  for  it.  And  a  very  respectable  person  he 
is,  too. 

The  history  of  Madeline's  next  few  months  made 
up  for  her  a  tale  of  anxious  waitings  for  many  mails : 
of  pangs  of  unendurable  tension  over  journals  that, 
surrendered  by  the  postman,  would  not  open;  that, 
opened  at  last,  seemed  nothing  but  advertisements; 
that,  run  to  earth  and  convicted  of  telegrams,  only 
yielded  new  food  for  anxiety.  A  tale  of  these 
periods  of  expectation  of  letters  from  Jack,  by  every 
mail.  The  first  of  expectation  fulfilled;  of  letters 
full  of  hope  and  confidence,  of  forecast  of  victories 


114  A  LIKELY  STORY 

easily  won  and  a  triumphant  quick  return.  The  sec- 
ond of  expectation  damped  and  thwarted ;  of  victories 
revised;  of  Hope's  rebukes  to  Confidence,  the 
coward  who  fails  us  at  our  need;  of  the  slow  dawn 
of  the  true  horrors  of  war — mere  death  on  the  battle- 
field the  least  of  them — that  will  one  day  change 
the  reckless  young  soldier  to  an  old  grave  man  that 
has  learned  his  lesson,  and  knows  that  the  curse  of 
Cain  is  on  him  who  stirs  to  War,  and  that  half  the 
great  names  of  History  have  been  borne  by  Devils 
incarnate.  And  then  the  third — a  weary  time  of 
waiting  for  a  letter  that  came  not,  for  only  one  little 
word  of  news  to  say  yes  or  no  to  the  question  we 
hardly  dare  to  ask : — "  Is  he  dead  ?  "  For  our  poor 
young  friend,  after  distinguishing  himself  brilliantly 
and  yet  coming  almost  scathless  out  of  half-a-dozen 
actions,  was  missing.  When  the  roll  was  called 
after  a  memorable  action  from  which  the  two 
opponent  armies  retreated  simultaneously,  able  to 
bear  the  slaughter  by  unseen  guns  no  longer,  no 
answer  came  to  the  name — called  formally — of 
Captain  Calverley.  The  survivors  who  still  had 
breath  to  answer  to  their  names  already  knew  that 
he  was  missing — knew  that  he  was  last  seen  appar- 
ently carried  away  by  his  horse,  having  lost  control 
over  it — probably  wounded,  said  report.  That  was 
all — soon  told!  And  then  followed  terrible  hours 
that  should  have  brought  more  news  and  did  not. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  115 

And  the  hearts  of  those  who  watched  for  it  went 
sick  with  the  fear  that  no  news  would  ever  come, 
that  none  would  ever  know  the  end  of  that  ride 
and  the  vanished  rider.  But  each  heart  hid  away 
its  sickness  from  its  neighbour,  and  would  not  tell. 

And  so  the  days  passed,  and  each  day's  end  was 
the  grafting  of  a  fresh  despair  in  the  tree  nourished 
in  the  soil  of  buried  hopes;  and  each  morning 
Madeline  would  try  to  reason  it  away  and  discover 
some  new  calendar  rule,  bringing  miscalculation  to 
book — always  cutting  short  the  tale  of  days,  never 
lengthening  them.  She  talked  very  little  to  any- 
one about  it,  for  fear  her  houses  of  cards  should  be 
shaken  down  by  stern  common  sense;  or,  worse 
still,  that  she  should  be  chilled  by  the  hesitating 
sympathy  of  half-hearted  Hope.  But  her  speech 
was  free  to  her  great  dog  Caesar,  when  they  were 
alone  together. 

Caesar  was  about  the  size  of  a  small  cart-horse, 
and  when  he  had  a  mind — and  he  often  had — to  lie 
on  the  hearthrug,  and  think  with  his  eyes  shut,  he 
was  difficult  to  move.  Not  that  he  had  an  opposive 
or  lazy  disposition,  but  that  it  was  not  easy  to  make 
him  understand.  The  moment  he  knew  what  was 
wanted  of  him  he  was  only  too  anxious  to  comply. 
As,  for  instance,  if  he  could  be  convinced  of  Cats, 
he  would  rise  and  leave  the  room  abruptly,  knocking 
several  persons  down,  and  leaving  behind  him  the 


116  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

trail  of  an  earthquake.  But  his  heart  was  good  and 
pure,  and  he  impressed  his  admirers  somehow  that 
he  was  always  on  the  side  of  Ormuzd  against 
Ahriman :  he  always  took  part  with  the  Right. 

So  Madeline,  when  she  found  herself  alone  with 
Caesar,  in  those  days,  would  cry  into  his  fur  as  he 
lay  on  the  rug,  and  would  put  sentiments  of  sym- 
pathy and  commiseration  into  his  mouth,  which  may 
have  been  warranted  by  the  facts,  only  really  there 
was  nothing  to  show  it.  In  these  passages  she  al- 
leged kinship  with  Ca?sar,  claiming  him  as  her  son. 

"  Was  he,"  she  would  say,  "  his  own  mamma's 
precious  Angel?  And  the  only  person  in  the  house 
that  had  any  real  feeling!  All  the  other  nasty  peo- 
ple keep  on  being  sorry  for  her,  and  he  says  he  knows 
Jack's  coming  back,  and  nobody  need  be  sorry  at 
all.  And  when  Jack  comes  home  safe  and  well,  his 
mamma's  own  Heavenly  Angel  shall  run  with  the 
horses  all  over  Household  Common — he  shall !  And 
he  shall  catch  a  swallow  at  last,  he  shall,  and  bring 
it  to  his  own  mamma.  Bless  him!  Only  he 
mustn't  scratch  his  darling  head  too  suddenly;  at 
least,  not  till  his  mamma  can  get  her  own  out  of  the 
way,  because  she's  not  a  bull  or  an  elephant,  and 
able  to  stand  anything.  .  .  .  That's  right,  my 
pet !  Now  he  shall  try  and  get  a  little  sleep,  he 
shall."  This  was  acknowledgment  of  a  deep  sigh, 
as  of  one  who  had  at  last  deservedly  found  rest. 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  117 

But  it  called  for  a  recognition  of  its  unselfish  nature, 
too.  "  And  he  never  so  much  as  thought  of  going 
to  sleep  till  he'd  consoled  his  poor  mamma — the 
darling !  "  And  really  her  interviews  with  Caesar 
grew  to  be  almost  Madeline's  only  speech  about  her 
lost  lover;  for  her  father  and  mother,  though  they 
talked  to  each  other,  scarcely  dared  to  say  a  word 
to  her,  lest  their  own  disbelief  in  the  possibility  of 
Jack's  return  should  show  itself. 

And  so  the  hours  passed  and  passed,  and  the  days 
grew  to  weeks,  and  the  weeks  to  months;  and  now, 
at  the  time  of  the  cold  March  night  when  Mr.  Pelly 
dreamed  the  picture  talked,  the  flame  of  Hope  was 
dying  down  in  the  girl's  tired  heart  like  the  embers 
he  sat  by,  and  none  came  bringing  fuel  and  a  new 
lease  of  life. 

But  the  way  she  nursed  the  flame  that  flickered 
still  was  brave.  She  kept  up  her  spirits  entirely 
on  the  knowledge  that  there  was  no  direct  proof  of 
Jack's  death.  She  fostered  a  conception  in  her 
mind  of  a  perfectly  imaginary  Veldt,  about  the  size 
of  Hyde  Park,  and  carefully  patrolled  day  and 
night.  They  would  have  been  certain  to  find  him  if 
he  were  dead — was  her  thought.  What  a  handy  lit- 
tle Veldt  that  was ! — and,  oh,  the  intolerable  leagues 
of  the  reality !  But  it  did  help  towards  keeping  her 
spirits  up,  somehow  or  other. 

Her  father  and  mother  ascribed  more  than  a  fair 


118  A  LIKELY  STORY 

share  of  these  kept-up  spirits  to  their  great  panacea. 
They  laid  to  their  souls  the  flattering  unction  that 
if  there  had  been  a  regular  engagement  their 
daughter  would  have  given  way  altogether.  Think 
what  a  difference  it  would  have  made  if  she  had  had 
to  go  into  mourning!  Lady  Upwell  took  exception 
to  the  behaviour  of  Jack's  family  at  Calverley  Court, 
who  had  rushed  into  mourning  six  weeks  after  his 
disappearance,  and  advertised  their  belief  in  his 
death,  really  before  there  was  any  need  for  it.  Her 
daughter,  on  the  contrary,  rather  made  a  parade  of 
being  out  of  mourning.  Perhaps  it  seemed  to  her 
to  emphasize  and  consolidate  her  own  hopes,  as  well 
as  to  rebuke  dispositions  towards  premature  despair 
in  others. 

Therefore,  when  this  young  lady  came  upon  old 
Mr.  Felly,  just  aroused  from  his  dream,  she  was 
certainly  not  clad  in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  She  had 
on  her  heliotrope  voile  de  sole;  only,  of  course,  Mr. 
Pelly  didn't  see  it  until  she  took  off  her  seal-colour 
musquash  wrap,  which  was  quite  necessary  because 
of  the  cold.  And  the  third  evening  after  that, 
which  was  to  be  a  quiet  one -at  home  for  Mr.  Pelly 
to  read  them  the  memoranda  of  his  dream  in  the 
Library,  she  put  on  her  Jap  kimono  with  the  em- 
broidered storks,  which  was  really  nearly  as  smart 
as  the  voile  de  sole;  and,  of  course,  there  was  no  need 
to  fig  up,  when  it  was  only  Mr.  Pelly.  And  what- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  119 

ever  tale  her  looks  might  tell,  no  one  could  have 
guessed  from  her  manner  she  had  such  a  sorrow  at 
heart,  so  successfully  did  she  affect,  from  fear  of 
it,  a  cheerfulness  she  was  far  from  feeling ;  knowing 
perfectly  well  that  if  she  made  any  concession,  she 
must  needs  break  down  altogether. 

"  Fancy  your  being  able  to  remember  it  all,  and 
write  it  out  like  that !  "  said  she  to  Mr.  Pelly  when 
they  adjourned  into  the  Library  after  dinner. 

"  We  must  bear  in  mind,"  he  replied,  "  that  the 
story  is  a  figment  of  my  own  mind,  and  therefore 
easier  to  recall  than  a  communication  from  another 
person.  Athenaeus  refers  to  an  instance  of  .  .  ." 

"  Never  mind  Athenseus !  How  do  you  know  it 
is  a  figment  of  your  imagination  ?  " 

"  What  else  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  Lots  of  things.  Besides,  it  doesn't  matter. 
Look  here,  now,  you  say  it  was  a  dream,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  think  so." 

"  Well ! — and  aren't  dreams  the  hardest  things  to 
recollect  there  are?  Look  at  the  Prophet  Daniel, 
and  Nebuchadnezzar."  Mr.  Pelly  thought  to  him- 
self that  he  would- much  sooner  look  at  the  speaker. 
But  he  only  said,  "  Suppose  we  do !  "  To  which 
the  reply  was,  "  Well,  then — of  course !  .  .  . " 

"  Of  course  what  ?  " 

"  Why — of  course  when  you  can  recollect  things 
that  proves  they're  not  dreams." 


120  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Then,  when  Daniel  recollected — or,  I  should 
rather  say,  recalled  his  dream  to  Nebuchadnezzar — 
did  that  prove  that  it  wasn't  a  dream  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  because  he  was  a  Prophet.  The 
Chaldeans  couldn't  recollect,  and  that  proved  that 
it  was." 

The  Baronet  and  his  Lady  remained  superiorly 
silent,  smiling  over  the  heads  of  the  discussion. 
The  attitude  of  Debrett  towards  human  weaknesses 
— such  as  Philosophical  Speculation,  or  the  Use  of 
the  Globes — was  indicated. 

When  Mr.  Pelly  had  finished  reading  his  account 
of  the  dream — on  which  our  relation  of  it,  already 
given,  was  founded — discussion  ensued.  It  em- 
bodied, intelligently  enough,  all  the  things  that  it 
is  dutiful  to  say  when  we  are  disconcerted  at  the 
inscrutable. 

The  Baronet  said  we  must  guard  ourselves  care- 
fully against  being  carried  away  by  two  or  three 
things;  superstition  was  one  of  them.  It  did  not 
require  a  Scientific  Eye  to  see  that  there  was  nothing 
in  this  narrative  which  might  not  be  easily  ascribed 
to  the  subconscious  action  of  Mr.  Pelly's  brain. 
It  was  quite  otherwise  in  such  a  case  as  that  of  his 
great-aunt,  Dorothea,  whose  wraith  undoubtedly 
appeared  and  took  refreshment  at  Knaresborough 
Copping  at  the  very  time  that  she  was  confined  of 
twins  here  in  this  house.  The  testimony  to  the 


A  LIKELY  STORY  121 

truth  of  this  had  never  been  challenged.  But  when 
people  came  and  told  him  stories  of  substantial 
tables  floating  in  the  air  and  accordions  being 
played,  he  always  asked  this  one  question,  "  Was 
it  in  the  dark  ?  "  That  question  always  proved  a 
poser,  etc.,  etc. — and  so  forth.  From  which  it 
will  be  seen  that  Sir  Stopleigh  belonged  to  that 
numerous  class  of  persons  which,  when  its 
attention  turns  towards  wondermongering  of 
any  sort,  loses  its  head  promptly,  and  runs 
through  the  nearest  available  gamut  of  accepted 
phrases. 

Her  ladyship  said  she  was  not  the  least  surprised 
at  anything  happening  in  a  dream.  She  herself 
dreamed  only  the  other  night  that  Lady  Pirbright 
had  gone  up  in  a  balloon  shaped  like  a  gridiron,  and 
the  very  next  day  came  the  news  that  old  Canon 
Pirbright,  at  Trenchards  Plaistowe,  had  had  a 
paralytic  stroke.  It  was  impossible  to  account  for 
these  things.  The  only  wonder  to  her  was  that  Mr. 
Pelly  should  have  recollected  the  whole  so  plainly, 
and  been  able  to  write  it  down.  She  would  give 
anything  to  recollect  that  dream  about  the  Circu- 
lating Library  and  the  potted  shrimps.  Her  lady- 
ship discoursed  for  some  time  about  her  own 
dreams. 

Mr.  Pelly  entirely  concurred  in  the  view  that  the 
whole  thing  was  a  dream.  In  fact,  it  would  be 


122  A  LIKELY  STORY 

absurd  to  suppose  it  anything  else.  When  he  got 
an  opportunity  to  read  Professor  Schrudengesser's 
translation  of  the  Italian  MS.  to  his  friends,  they 
would  readily  see  the  source  of  most  of  the  events 
his  mind  had  automatically  woven  into  a  con- 
tinuous narrative  for  the  picture-woman  to  tell. 
He  would  rather  read  it  to  them  himself  than  leave 
them  the  MS.  to  read,  as  there  were  points  that 
would  require  explanation.  He  could  not  offer  to 
do  so  till  he  came  back  from  his  great-grandniece 
Constance's  wedding  at  Cowcester.  A  little  delay 
would  not  matter.  They  would  not  have  forgotten 
the  dream-story  in  a  fortnight.  To  this,  assent  was 
given  in  chorus. 

But  Madeline  was  not  going  to  have  the  story 
pooh-poohed  and 'made  light  of.  "I  believe  it  was 
a  ghost,  Uncle  Christopher,"  said  she.  "  The  ghost 
of  the  woman  in  the  picture.  And  you  christened 
her  after  me  by  subconscious  thingummy.  Madda- 
lena's  Italian  for  Madeline.  But  they  never  give 
their  names  right.  Ask  anyone  that  has  phe- 
nomena." Then  she  lit  candles  for  all  parties  to 
go  to  bed,  and  kissed  them  all,  including  her  alleged 
uncle,  who  laid  stress  on  his  claim  for  this  grace  in 
duplicate,  as  he  had  no  one  to  kiss  him  at  home. 
"  Poor  Uncle  Christopher,"  said  she,  "  he's  been  shut 
up  in  the  dark  with  a  ghost.  ...  Oh  yes ! — I'm 
in  earnest,  and  you're  all  a  parcel  of  sillies."  Then 


A  LIKELY  STORY  123 

she  borrowed  his  written  account  of  the  dream  to 
re-read  in  bed,  and  take  care  the  lamp  didn't  set 
fire  to  the  curtains.  She  said  she  particularly 
wanted  to  look  at  that  last  sentence  or  two,  about 
when  the  picture  was  in  Chelsea. 


CHAPTEE  V 

ME.  AIKEN'S  SEQUEL.  PIMLICO  STUDIOS.  MB.  HUQHES'S  IDEA. 
ASPECTS  OF  NATUBE.  MB.  HUGHES's  FOOT.  WHAT  HAD  MB. 
AIKEN  BEEN  AT  ?  NOT  FANNY  SMITH.  IT  WAS  SAIBAH !  ! 
WHO  MISUNDEBSTOOD  AND  TUBNED  VEBMILION?  HEB  MALICE. 
THE  BEGENT'S  CANAL.  MB.  AIKEN'S  ADVICE  FBOM  HIS 
FBIENDS.  WOMAN  AND  HER  SEX.  HOW  MB.  HUGHES  VISITED 
MB.  AIKEN  ONE  EVENING,  AND  THE  POST  CAME,  WITH  SOME- 
THING TOO  BIG  FOB  THE  BOX,  WHILE  MRS.  PABPLES  SLEPT. 
MB.  AIKEN'S  VEBY  SINCERELY  MADELINE  UPWEIX.  HEB 
TBANSPABENCY.  HOW  THE  PICTUBE'S  PHOTO  STOOD  ON  THE 
TABLE.  INTEBESTING  LUCUBBATIONS  OF  MB.  HUGHES.  WHAT 

WAS  THAT?     BUT  IT  WAS   NOTHING ONLY  AN  EFFECT  OF 

SOMETHING.    THE    VEBNACULAR    MIND.     NEGATIVE    JURIES. 
HOW  MB.  AIKEN  STOPPED  AN  ECHO,  SO  IT  WAS  MB.  HUGHES'S 

FANCY 

THE  story's  brief  reference  to  Mr.  Aiken's  life 
after  his  good  lady  forsook  him,  may  be  sufficient  for 
its  purposes,  but  the  author  is  in  a  certain  sense 
bound  to  communicate  to  the  reader  any  details 
that  have  come  to  his  knowledge. 

Mr.  Aiken's  first  step  was  to  take  an  intimate 
friend  or  two  into  his  confidence.  But  his  intimate 
friend  or  two  had  a  quality  in  common  with  Mr. 
Pickwick's  bottle  or  two.  An  intimate  friend  or 
six  would  be  nearer  the  mark — or  even  twelve. 
He  did  not  tell  his  story  separately  to  each;  there 
was  no  need.  If  the  mention  of  a  private  affair 

124 


A  LIKELY  STORY  125 

within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse  leads  to  its 
being  shouted  at  once  from  the  top  of  the  house — 
and  that  was  the  experience  of  Maud's  young  man 
who  went  to  the  Crimea — how  much  more  public 
will  your  confidences  become  if  you  make  them  to 
a  tenant  of  a  Studio  that  is  one  of  a  congeries. 
Pimlico  Studios  was  a  congeries,  built  to  accom- 
modate the  Artists  of  a  great  age  of  Art,  now  pend- 
ing, as  though  to  meet  the  needs  of  locusts.  For 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  such  an  age  is  at  hand, 
if  we  are  to  judge  by  the  workshop  accommodation 
that  appears  to  be  anticipating  it.  An  ingenious 
friend  of  the  author — you  must  have  noticed  how 
many  authors  have  ingenious  friends  ? — has  been 
able  to  determine  by  a  system  of  averages  of  a  most 
irresistibly  convincing  nature,  that  the  cubic  area 
of  the  Studios  in  Chelsea  and  Kensington  alone 
exceeds  that  of  the  Lunatic  Asylums  of  the  Metrop- 
olis by  nearly  seven  and  a  quarter  per  cent.  This 
gentleman's  researches  on  the  subject  are  conse- 
quent upon  his  singular  conviction  that  the  output 
of  the  Fine  Arts,  broadly  speaking,  is  small  in 
proportion  to  the  amount  of  energy  and  capital 
devoted  to  them.  "We  have  reasoned  with  him  in 
vain  on  the  subject,  pointing  out  that  the  Fine  Arts 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  economies  of 
Manufacture,  least  of  all  in  any  proportions  between 
the  labour  expended  and  the  results  attained. 


126  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Were  it  otherwise,  the  estimation  of  a  painter's 
merit  would  rise  or  fall  with  his  colourman's  bill 
and  the  rent  of  his  studio.  This  gentleman — 
although  he  is  a  friend  of  the  author — has  no  Soul. 
If  he  had,  the  spectacle  of  the  life-struggle  which 
is  often  the  lot  of  Genius  would  appeal  to  him,  and 
cause  him  to  suspend  his  opinion.  It  is  always, 
we  understand,  desirable  to  suspend  one's  opinion. 
And  he  would  do  so,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  an 
Artist,  a  common  acquaintance  of  ours,  whom  at 
present  he  condemns  freely,  calling  him  names. 
This  Artist  has  five  Studios,  each  of  them  full  of 
easels  and  thrones.  The  number  of  his  half-used 
colour  tubes  that  won't  squeeze  out  is  as  the  sands 
of  the  sea,  while  his  bundles  of  brushes  that  only 
want  washing  to  be  as  good  as  new,  may  be  likened 
to  corn-sheaves,  in  so  far  as  their  stems  go — a  mere 
affair  of  numeration.  But  their  business  ends  are 
another  pair  of  shoes  altogether;  for,  in  the  former, 
the  hairs  have  become  a  coagulum  as  hard  as  agate, 
calling  aloud  for  Benzine  Collas  to  disintegrate  them 
— in  the  tune,  this  Artist  admits,  of  threepence 
each — whereas  the  ear  of  corn  yields  to  less  drastic 
treatment.  Contrivances  of  a  specious  nature  in 
japanned  tin  and  celluloid  abound,  somewhat  as 
spray  abounds  on  oceans  during  equinoxes,  and 
each  of  these  has  at  one  time  fondly  imagined  it 
was  destined  to  become  that  Artist's  great  resource 


A  LIKELY  STORY  127 

and  stand-by,  the  balustrade  his  genius  would  not 
scorn  to  be  indebted  to.  But  he  has  never  drawn 
a  profile  with  the  copying-machine  that  has  legs, 
nor  availed  himself  of  the  powers  of  the  grapho- 
scope — if  that  is  its  name — that  does  perspective, 
nor  done  anything  with  the  countless  wooden 
figures  except  dislocate  their  universal  joints;  nor, 
we  fear,  for  a  long  time  paid  anything  on  account 
of  the  quarterly  statements  that  flutter  about,  with 
palette-knives  full  of  colour  wiped  off  on  them,  that 
are  not  safe  to  sit  down  upon  for  months.  But  no 
impartial  person  could  glance  at  any  of  the  in- 
augurations of  pictures  on  the  thousand  canvases 
in  these  five  Studios  without  at  once  exclaiming, 
"  This  is  Genius !  "  The  Power  of  the  Man  is  every- 
where visible,  and  no  true  lover  of  Art  ever  regrets 
that  so  few  of  them  have  been  carried  into  that 
doubtful  second  stage  where  one  spoils  all  the 
moddlin'  and  the  colour  won't  hold  up,  and  some- 
how you  lose  the  first  spirit  of  the  Idear  and  don't 
get  any  forwarder.  It  never  occurs  to  any  mature 
Critic  to  question  the  value  of  this  Artist's  results, 
even  of  his  least  elaborated  ones.  And,  indeed,  an 
opinion  is  current  among  his  friends  that  restriction 
of  materials  and  of  the  area  of  his  Studios  might 
have  cramped  and  limited  the  free  development  of 
a  great  mind.  They  are  all  unanimous  that  a 
feller  like  Tomkins  must  have  room  to  turn  round, 


128  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

or  where  are  you !  And,  if,  as  we  must  all  hope,  the 
growth  of  genius  such  as  his  is  to  be  fostered  as  it 
deserves,  no  one  should  look  with  an  ungenerous 
eye  upon  such  agglomerations  of  Art-workshops  as 
the  Pimlico  Studios,  or  sneer  at  them  as  uncalled 
for,  merely  because  a  Philistine  Plutocracy  refuses 
to  buy  their  produce,  and  has  no  walls  to  hang  it  on 
if  it  did.  We  for  our  part  can  only  note  with  regret 
that  any  Studios  should  be  so  badly  adapted  to  their 
purpose,  and  constructed  with  so  little  consideration 
for  the  comfort  of  their  occupants,  as  these  same 
Pimlico  Studios. 

We  have,  however,  been  tempted  away  from  our 
subject,  which  at  present  is  the  community  of 
Artists  that  occupied  them;  and  must  return  to  it 
to  say  that  these  very  drawbacks  were  not  altogether 
without  their  compensations.  For  though  these 
Studios  were  unsound,  like  the  arguments  of  Dis- 
sent, being  constructed  to  admit  rainwater  and 
retain  products  of  combustion,  each  of  its  own 
stove  and  the  Studio  beneath  it;  these  structural 
shortcomings  were  really  advantages,  in  so  far  as 
they  promoted  interchange  of  social  amenities  be- 
tween the  resident  victims  of  the  speculative  builder 
who  ran  up  the  congeries.  Sympathy  against  their 
common  enemy,  the  landlord,  brought  all  the  oc- 
cupants of  Pimlico  Studios  into  a  hotchpot  of  broth- 
erly affection,  and  if  the  choruses  of  execration  in 


A  LIKELY  STORY  129 

which  they  found  comfort  have  reached  the  ears  for 
which  they  were  intended,  that  builder  will  catch  it 
hot,  one  of  these  odd-come-shortlies.  This  expression 
is  not  our  own. 

When  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken,  with  his  domestic 
perplexity  burning  his  tongue's  end  and  crying 
aloud  for  utterance,  called  upon  the  Artist  from 
whom  we  have  borrowed  it,  that  gentleman,  Mr. 
Hughes,  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  was 
thinking.  He  had  been  thinking  since  breakfast — 
thinking  about  some  new  aspects  of  Nature,  which 
had  been  the  subject  of  discussion  with  some  friends 
the  evening  before.  They  were  those  new  Aspects 
of  Nature  which  have  been  presented  so  forcibly  by 
Van  Schronk  and  Le  Neutre ;  and  of  which,  in  this 
Artist's  opinion,  more  than  a  hint  is  to  be  found 
in  Hawkins.  He  was  thinking  deeply  when  Mr. 
Aiken  came  in,  and  not  one  stroke  of  work  had  he 
done,  would  that  gentleman  believe  him,  since  he 
set  out  his  palette.  Mr.  Aiken's  credulity  was  not 
overtaxed. 

Mr.  Hughes  wanted  to  talk  about  himself,  and 
said  absently,  "  You  all  right,  Crocky  ?  "  address- 
ing Mr.  Aiken  by  a  familiar  name  in  use  among  his 
intimate  friends.  He  was  not  well  disposed  towards 
a  negative  answer  when  Mr.  Aiken  gave  one ;  an 
equivocal  one  certainly,  but  not  one  to  whose 
meaning  it  was  possible  to  affect  blindness.  The 


130  A  LIKELY  STORY 

words  were  "  Hiddlin' — considerin' !  "  But  Mr. 
Hughes  was  not  going  to  be  too  coming. 

"  Wife  well  ?  "  said  he,  remotely. 

Mr.  Aiken  sprang  at  his  inattentive  throat,  and 
nailed  him.  "Ah,  that's  it,"  said  he.  "That's 
the  point." 

Mr.  Hughes  was  forced  to  inquire  further,  and 
stand  his  Idea  over,  for  later  discussion.  But  he 
might  just  as  well  have  let  it  alone — better,  if  you 
come  to  that.  He  really  was  a  stupid  feller,  Hughes, 
don't  you  know  ?  "I  say,"  said  he,  "  don't  you 
run  away  and  say  I  didn't  tell  you  what  would 
happen."  For  he  had  interpreted  his  friend's 
agitated  demeanour  and  equivocal  speech  as  the 
result  of  a  recent  insight  into  futurity,  showing  him 
in  the  position  of  a  detected  and  convicted  parent, 
without  the  means  of  providing  for  an  increasing 
family.  For  they  do  that,  families  do. 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Stumpy,"  said  he,  using  a 
familiar  name  no  fact  in  real  life  warranted.  "  It's 
not  that  sort  of  thing,  thank  God!  No — I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is,  only  you  mustn't  on  any  account  men- 
tion it." 

"All  right,  Crocky!  I  never  mention  things. 
Honest  Injun!  Go  ahead  easy."  Mr.  Hughes  was 
greatly  relieved  that  his  surmise  had  been  wrong. 
Good  job  for  Mr.  Aiken,  as  also  for  his  wife!  Mr. 
Hughes  desired  his  congratulations  to  this  lady,  but 


A  LIKELY  STORY  131 

withdrew  them  on  second  thoughts.  Because,  you 
see,  her  escape  from  the  anxieties  of  maternity  was 
entirely  constructive.  Mr.  Hughes  felt  that  he  had 
put  his  foot  in  it,  and  that  his  wisest  course  would 
be  to  take  it  out.  He  did  so.  But  Mr.  Aiken  had 
something  to  say  about  his  wife,  and  made  it  a 
corollary  to  her  disappearance  from  the  conver- 
sation. 

"  She's  bolted !  "  said  he  lugubriously.  "  Went 
away  Thursday  and  wrote  to  say  she  wasn't  coming 
back,  Friday.  It's  a  fact." 

Mr.  Hughes  put  back  his  foot  in  it.  "  Who's  she 
bolted  with  1  Who's  the  feller  ?  " 

Mr.  Aiken  flushed  up  quite  red,  like  any  turkey- 
cock.  "  Damn  it,  Stump !  "  said  he,  "  you  really 
ought  to  take  care  what  you're  saying.  I  should 
like  to  see  any  fellow  presume  to  run  away  with 
Euphemia.  Draw  it  mild !  "  He  became  calmer, 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  was  ashamed  of  his  irritability. 
But  really  it  was  Mr.  Hughes's  fault — talking  just 
as  if  it  was  like  in  a  novel,  and  Euphemia  a  character. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  that  offender  humbly. 
"  It  was  the  way  you  put  it.  Besides,  they  are 
generally  supposed  to." 

Mr.  Aiken  responded,  correctively  and  loftily: 
"  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  on  the  stage  and  in  novels." 
He  added,  with  something  of  insular  pride,  "  Chiefly 
French  and  American." 


132  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"What's  her  little  game,  then?"  asked  Mr. 
Hughes.  "  If  it's  not  some*  other  beggar,  what  is 
it  she's  run  away  with  ?  " 

"  She  has  not  run  away  with  anybody,"  said  Mr. 
Aiken  with  dignity.  "  Nor  anything.  Perhaps  I 
should  explain  myself  better  by  saying  that  she  has 
refused  to  return  from  her  Aunt's." 

"  Any  reason  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hughes,  who  wanted  to 
get  back  to  his  Idea. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  it  was  my  fault,  Stumpy," 
came  very  penitently  from  the  catechumen. 

Interest  was  roused.  "  I  say,  young  man,"  said 
Mr.  Hughes,  with  a  tendency  of  one  eye  to  close, 
"  what  have  you  been  at  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  nothing  whatever !  " 

"  Yes,  of  course !  But  along  of  who !  Who's  the 
young  woman  you  haven't  been  making  love  to  ?  Tell 
up  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  You  don't  understand,  Stump.    Really  nobody!  " 

Mr.  Hughes  thought  a  moment,  as  though  he 
were  at  work  on  a  conundrum.  Then  he  pointed 
suddenly.  "  Fanny  Smith !  "  said  he,  convictingly. 

Mr.  Aiken  quite  lost  his  temper,  and  got  demon- 
strative. "  Fanny  Smith — Fanny  grandmother !  " 
he  exclaimed,  meaninglessly.  "  How  can  you  talk 
such  infernal  rot,  Stumpy !  Do  be  reasonable !  " 

"  Then  it  was  somebody"  said  his  tormentor,  and 
Mr.  Aiken  felt  very  awkward  and  humiliated. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  133 

However,  he  saw  inevitable  confession  ahead,  and 
braced  himself  to  the  task.  "  Keally,  Stump," 
said  he,  "  it  would  make  you  cry  with  laughing  to 
know  who  it  was  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I 
said  '  Fanny  grandmother/  just  now,  but  at  any 
rate  Fanny  Smith's  a  tailor's  wife  with  no  legs  to 
speak  of,  who  sits  on  the  counter,  and  a  very  nice 
girl  if  you  know  her.  I  mean  there's  no  funda- 
mental absurdity  in  Fanny  Smith.  This  was." 
Which  wasn't  good  speechwork,  but,  oh  dear,  how 
little  use  accuracy  is ! 

"  Who  was  it  then  ?  "  Mr.  Hughes  left  one  eye 
shut,  under  an  implied  contract  to  reopen  it  as  soon 
as  the  answer  came  to  his  question. 

"  Well !  "  said  Mr.  Aiken  reluctantly.  "  If  you 
must  have  it,  it  was  Sairah!  "  He  was  really 
relieved  when  his  friend  looked  honestly  puzzled, 
repeating  after  him  "  Sairah !  What ! — the  gurl !  " 
in  genuine  astonishment.  It  was  now  evident  that 
the  Idea  would  have  to  stand  over. 

Mr.  Hughes  said  farewell  to  it,  almost  audibly; 
then  said  "  Stop  a  minute !  "  and  lit  a  pipe ;  then 
settled  down  in  a  rocking  chair  to  listen,  saying, 
"  Now,  my  boy! — off  you  go."  He  was  a  long  and 
loose-limbed  person  who  picked  his  knees  up 
alternately  with  both  hands,  as  though  to  hold  his 
legs  on.  Whenever  he  did  this,  the  slipper  in  that 
connection  came  off,  with  the  effect  of  bringing  its 


134  A  LIKELY  STORY 

owner's  sock  into  what  is  called  keeping  with  the 
rest  of  the  Studio,  one  which  many  persons  would 
have  considered  untidy. 

After  which  Mr.  Aiken  went  off,  or  on — which- 
ever you  prefer.  "  Of  course  I  don't  expect  you 
fellers  to  do  anything  but  chaff,  you  know.  But 
it's  jolly  unpleasant,  for  all  that.  It  was  like  this, 
don't  you  see?  A  young  female  swell  had  brought 
her  sweetheart — I  suppose^  unless  he  was  her  cousin 
— to  see  a  picture  I'm  cleaning  for  her  parent,  who  is 
a  Bart.  In  Worcestershire.  Know  him  ?  Sir  Stop- 
leigh  Upwell." 

Mr.  Hughes  didn't,  that  he  could  call  to  inind, 
after  a  mental  search  which  seemed  to  imply  great 
resources  in  Barts. 

"  Well — she  was  an  awfully  jolly  girl,  but  quite 
that  sort."  Mr.  Aiken  tried  to  indicate,  by  gesture, 
a  fashionably  dressed  young  lady  with  a  stylish 
figure,  and  failed.  But  Mr.  Hughes,  an  Impres- 
sionist Artist,  could  understand,  and  nodded  prompt 
appreciation.  So  Mr.  Aiken  continued : 

"  When  they  cleared  out,  Euphemia  said  the 
young  woman  was  '  up-to-date.'  And  I  suppose  she 
was.  ..." 

"  Oh  certainly — quite  up  to  date — not  a  doubt 
of  it!" 

"  Well — I  made  believe  not  to  know  the  meaning 
of  the  expression,  just  to  take  a  rise  out  of  Euphemia, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  135 

And  you  know  she  has  just  one  fault — she's  so 
matter-of-fact!  She  said  everyone  knew  the  mean- 
ing of  l  up-to-date/  that  knew  anything.  Ask 
anybody!  Ask  her  Aunt  Priscilla — and  I  cer- 
tainly wasn't  going  to  do  that;  just  like  bearding 
a  tigress  in  her  den  with  impertinent  questions! — 
or  Mrs.  Verity  the  landlady.  Or,  for  that  matter, 
ask  the  gurl,  Sairah !  That's  where  she  came  in, 
Stump."  Mr.  Aiken  seemed  to  hang  fire. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Hughes,  "  she  only  comes  in  as 
an  abstraction,  so  far.  I  can't  see  her  carcass  in 
it."  From  which  we  may  learn  that  Mr.  Hughes 
thought  that  abstract  means  incorporeal;  or,  at 
least,  imponderable.  It  is  a  common  error.  "  What 
did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  said  '  Suppose  I  ask  Sairah ! '  and  rang  for 
her,  for  a  lark.  Euphemia  was  in  an  awful  rage  and 
pretended  to  go,  but  stopped  outside  to  listen."  The 
speaker's  hesitation  appeared  to  increase. 

''Well — and  when  she  came  ?    .    .    ." 

"  Why,  the  stupid  idiot  altogether  misunder- 
stood me.  Damn  fool !  What  the  doose  she  thought 
I  meant,  I  don't  know.  ..." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  Out  with  it,  old  chap !  " 
Mr.  Hughes  seemed  to  be  holding  intense  amuse- 
ment back,  with  a  knowledge  that  it  would  get  the 
bit  in  its  teeth  in  the  end. 

Mr.  Aiken,  seeing  this,  intensified  and  enlarged  his 


136  A  LIKELY  STORY 

manner.  "  I  merely  said — No,  really  it's  the  simple 
honest  truth,  every  word — I  merely  said,  '  Your 
mistress  says  you  know  the  meaning  of  "  up-to- 
date,"  Sairah.'  And  what  does  the  beast  of  a  girl 
do  but  turn  vermilion  and  stand  staring  like  a  stuck 
pig." 

Mr.  Hughes  began  shaking  his  head  slowly  from 
side  to  side.  But  he  did  not  get  to  the  direction 
accelerando,  for  he  stopped  short,  and  said  abruptly, 
"  Well— what  next?" 

Mr.  Aiken  assumed  a  responsible  and  mature 
manner,  rather  like  that  of  a  paterfamilias  on  his 
beat.  "  I  reasoned  with  the  girl.  Pointed  out  that 
her  mistress  wouldn't  say  things  to  turn  vermilion 
about.  I  tried  to  soothe  her  suspicions.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Hughes  interrupted.  "  I  see.  No  tong- 
dresses,  of  course  ?  " 

Mr.  Aiken  explained  that  that  was  just  where  the 
misapprehension  had  come  in.  If  his  wife  had 
been  inside  the  room  instead  of  on  the  stairs,  she 
would  have  seen  that  there  was  absolutely  nothing. 
Mr.  Hughes  looked  incredulous. 

"  There  must  have  been  something  old  chap,  to 
set  your  missis  off.  Don't  tell  me !  " 

But  Mr.  Aiken  would  tell  Mr.  Hughes — would 
insist  on  doing  so.  "  It  was  the  horrible,  shameless 
brute's  diabolical  malice !  "  he  shouted.  "  Nothing 
more  nor  less!  What  does  she  do  but  say  out  loud 


A  LIKELY  STORY  137 

just  as  my  wife  was  coming  into  the  room,  '  You 
keep  your  'ands  off  of  me,  Mr.  Aching ! '  and  of 
course,  when  Euphemia  came  in,  she  thought  I  had 
just  jumped  half  a  mile  off.  And  it  was  rough  on 
me,  Stump,  because  really  my  motive  was  to  save 
my  wife  having  to  get  another  house-and-parlour- 
maid." 

"  Motive  for  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hughes  shrewdly. 
He  had  touched  the  weak  point  of  the  story.  "  Did 
you,  or  did  you  not,  young  man,  take  this  young 
person  round  the  waist  or  chuck  her  under  the 
chin?" 

"  My  dear  Hughes,"  said  Mr.  Aiken,  with  un- 
disguised impatience,  "  I  wouldn't  chuck  that 
odious  girl  under  the  chin  with  the  end  of  a  barge- 
pole. Nor,"  he  added  after  reflection,  "  take  her 
round  the  waist  with  one  of  the  drags  in  readiness 
at  the  Lodge."  The  barge-pole  had  conducted  his 
imagination  to  the  Regent's  Canal,  and  left  it 
there. 

Mr.  Aiken  had  had  no  intention  when  he  called 
on  his  friend  Hughes  to  take  the  whole  of  Pimlico 
Studios  into  his  confidence.  But  what  was  he  to 
do  when  another  Artist  dropped  in  and  Mr.  Hughes 
said,  "  You  won't  mind  Triggs  ?  The  most  dis- 
creet beggar  /  ever  came  across ! "  What  could 
he  say  that  would  arrest  the  entry  of  Mr.  Triggs 
into  the  discussion  of  his  family  jar  that  would  not 


138  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

appear  to  imply  that  that  gentleman  was  an  in- 
discreet beggar  ?  And  what  course  was  open  to  him 
when  Mr.  Hughes  told  yet  another  Artist,  whose 
name  was  Dolly,  that  he  might  come  in,  but  he 
wasn't  to  listen?  And  yet  another,  whose  name 
was  Doddles  ? 

Even  if  there  had  been  no  other  chance  visitors 
to  the  Studio  during  the  conclave  on  Mr.  Aiken's 
private  affairs,  there  would  have  been  every  likeli- 
hood of  complete  publicity  for  them  in  the  course  of 
a  day  or  two  at  most.  For  nothing  stimulates 
Rumour  like  affidavits  of  secrecy.  It's  such  fun 
telling  what  is  on  no  account  to  go  any  farther.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact  more  than  one  gentleman  who 
would  have  resented  being  called  a  flaneur,  looked 
in  at  Mr.  Hughes's  Studio  casually  that  morning 
to  talk  over  that  gentleman's  Idea,  mooted  yesterday 
at  The  Club,  and  found  himself  outside  a  circle 
whose  voices  subsided  to  inaudible  exchanges  of 
postscripts  to  finish  up.  As  each  newcomer  acted 
upon  this  in  the  sweet  and  candid  manner  of  this 
community,  saying  unaffectedly  "  What's  the  fun  ?  " 
and  some  friend  of  his  within  the  circle  usually  said 
to  him  "  Shut  up  1  Tell  you  after !  "  and  as  more- 
over it  was  invariably  felt  that  a  single  exclusion 
only  embarrassed  counsel,  no  opportunity  was 
really  lost  of  making  Europe  acquainted  with  the 
disruption  of  Mr.  Aiken's  household.  And  it  was 


A  LIKELY  STORY  139 

a  pity,  because  so  much  gossip  doesn't  do  any  good. 
Besides,  the  time  might  have  been  profitably  em- 
ployed ventilating  Mr.  Hughes's  Idea,  and  getting 
a  sort  of  provisional  insight  into  the  best  means  of 
carrying  it  out.  As  it  was,  when,  some  time  after 
midday,  someone  said,  "  I  say,  Stump,  my  boy, 
how  about  that  Idea  of  yours  we  were  talking  about 
at  The  Club  yesterday  ? "  everyone  else  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  said  it  was  too  late  to  get  on  to  that 
now;  we  must  have  lunch,  and  have  a  real  serious 
talk  about  it  another  time.  Then  we  went  to  lunch 
at  Machiavelli's,  and  it  was  plenty  early  enough  if 
we  were  back  by  three. 

Mr.  Aiken  received  a  good  deal  of  very  sound 
advice  from  his  friends  as  to  how  he  might  best  deal 
with  his  emergency.  He  turned  this  over  in  his 
mind  as  he  turned  himself  over  on  his  couch  when 
he  got  home  about  three  in  the  morning,  and  was 
rather  at  a  loss  to  select  from  it  any  samples  from 
different  Mentors  which  agreed  upon  a  course.  In 
fact,  the  only  one  thing  they  had  in  common  was 
the  claim  made  by  their  respective  promulgators 
to  a  wider  and  deeper  knowledge  of  that  mysterious 
creature  Woman  than  Mr.  Aiken's  inexperience 
could  boast.  One  said  to  him — speaking  as  from 
long  observation  of  a  Sex  you  couldn't  make  head 
or  tail  of — that  depend  upon  it  she  would  come 
round,  you  see  if  she  didn't.  They  always  did. 


140  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Another,  that  this  said  Sex  was  obstinacy  itself, 
and  you  might  depend  upon  it  she  would  stick  put. 
They  always  did.  Another,  that  a  lot  the  best 
thing  for  a  husband  in  like  case  to  do  was  to  go 
and  cosset  the  offended  lady  over  with  appropriate 
caresses,  before  which  she  would  be  sure  to  soften. 
They  always  did.  Another,  that  if  you  could 
convince  her  by  some  subtle  machinations  that 
you  didn't  care  a  twopenny  damn  how  long  she 
stayed  away,  back  she  would  come  on  the  nail. 
They  always  did.  In  the  multitude  of  counsellors 
there  is  Wisdom,  no  doubt,  but  when  the  multitude 
is  large  enough  to  advise  every  possible  course,  it  is 
just  as  easy  to  run  through  all  the  courses  open  to 
adoption  by  oneself,  and  choose  one  on  the  strength 
of  its  visible  recommendations.  More  particularly 
because  so  many  advisers  insist  on  your  taking  their 
advice,  and  go  on  giving  it,  cataballatively,  if  you 
don't.  Mr.  Aiken  felt,  when  he  retired  for  the 
night,  like  the  sheet  Aunt  Sally  hangs  up  behind 
her  being  folded  up  at  the  end  of  a  busy  day  on 
Epsom  Downs. 

It  was  a  great  pity  that  Mr.  Aiken's  domestic 
upset  did  not  occur  a  few  days  later,  because  then 
Mr.  Hughes's  Idea  would  have  had  such  a  much 
clearer  stage  for  its  debut.  As  it  was,  what  with  one 
thing  and  what  with  another,  the  mature  discussion 
of  this  subject  was  delayed  a  full  week.  Xext  day 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  141 

Triggs  had  to  go  to  Paris,  and  of  course  it  was 
nonsense  to  attempt  anything  without  him — for 
look  at  the  clearness  of  that  man's  head!  Then, 
when  Triggs  came  back,  a  day  later  than  expected, 
his  Aunt  must  needs  invite  her  nephew  down  to 
Suddington  Park,  which  is  her  place  in  Shropshire, 
which  had  earned  for  Mr.  Triggs  the  name  of  The 
Pobble — you  remember  Aunt  Jopiska's  Park,  if 
you  read  Lear  in  youth — and  which  was  an 
expectation  of  his,  if  he  kept  in  favour  with  the  old 
lady.  Of  course,  the  Idea  didn't  depend  on  Triggs, 
or  any  one  man.  Xo,  thank  you!  But  Triggs 
had  a  good  business  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  was 
particularly  sound  on  the  subject  of  Premises.  It 
is  a  singular  and  noticeable  thing  that  whenever 
any  great  motive  or  scheme  germinates  in  the 
human  brain,  that  brain,  before  it  has  formulated 
the  conditions  thereof,  or  fully  defined  its  objects, 
will  begin  to  look  at  Premises,  and  while  it  is  examin- 
ing some  very  much  beyond  its  means — in  Picca- 
dilly, for  instance,  or  Old  Bond  Street — will  feel 
that  the  project  is  assuming  form,  and  that  now 
we  shall  get  on  to  really  doing  something,  and  come 
to  the  end  of  this  everlasting  talk,  talk,  talk,  that 
leads  to  nothing,  and  only  sets  people  against  us. 
So  really  very  little  could  be  done  till  The  Pobble 
came  back  from  Aunt  Jopiska.  When  he  did  come 
back  there  was  some  other  delay,  but  it's  always 


142  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

well  to  be  beforehand.  The  enthusiasts  of  this  Idea 
could  look  at  Premises ;  and  did  so. 

All  this  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  story. 
But  it  serves  to  individualize  Mr.  Hughes,  who,  but 
for  it,  would  be  merely  a  long  artist  with  a  goatee 
beard,  who  not  infrequently  looked  in  to  smoke  a 
pipe  on  the  split  wild  boar  whose  head  endangered 
the  safety  of  self-warmers  on  Mr.  Aiken's  floor  in 
the  Studio  near  the  stove  where  he  found  the  Vestas 
that  were  all  stuck  together. 

Mr.  Hughes  was  standing  there,  a  good  many 
weeks  after  our  last  date,  chatting  with  Mr.  Aiken, 
who  was  becoming  quite  slovenly  and  dirty  with 
nobody  to  look  after  him — because,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Parples,  who  came  in  by  the  day,  hadn't  the  sense  to 
see  to  anything;  and,  moreover,  he  was  that  snappy 
at  every  turn,  there  wasn't,  according  to  Mrs. 
Parples,  many  would  abear  him. 

He  had  been  hoping  that  the  first  of  his  advisers 
whom  we  cited  was  right,  and  that  if  he  waited  a 
reasonable  time  he  would  see  if  his  wife  wouldn't 
come  round.  If  they  always  did,  she  would.  But 
he  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  they  sometimes 
didn't.  He  had  even  impatiently  expressed  a 
view  equivalent  to  that  which  identified  her  with 
obstinacy  itself,  the  quality.  But  this  was  only 
temper,  though  no  doubt  she  might  stick  out. 
They  might  sometimes,  those  curious  examples  of 


A  LIKELY  STORY  143 

a  perfectly  unique  Sex.  He  really  wanted  to  go 
to  her  with  persuasive  arts  and  procure  a  reconcilia- 
tion. But  he  was  too  proud. 

Besides,  if  that  was  possible  now,  it  would  be 
equally  so  three  months  hence.  As  to  the  fourth 
alternative,  that  of  showing  he  didn't  care,  that 
would  be  capital  on  the  stage,  but  he  wasn't  going 
to  burn  his  fingers  with  it  in  real  life.  So  he  passed 
his  days  working,  in  his  own  conceit;  and  smoking 
in  a  chair  opposite  to  his  work,  in  Mrs.  Parples'. 
Perhaps  neither  conception  was  quite  correct.  His 
evenings  he  mostly  passed  seeing  bad  plays  well 
acted,  or  good  plays  ill  acted — these  are  the  only 
sorts  you  can  get  free  paper  for.  It  was  ridiculous 
for  him,  knowing  such  a  lot  of  actors,  to  pay  at  the 
door.  Now  and  again,  however,  he  stayed  at 
home,  and  a  friend  came  in  for  a  quiet  smoke. 
Even  so  Mr.  Hughes,  this  evening. 

"  Things  improvin'  at  all,  Crocky  ? "  said 
he,  not  exactly  as  if  he  thought  he  wasn't 
inquisitive. 

Mr.  Aiken  kept  an  answer,  which  was  coming, 
back  for  consideration.  He  appeared  to  reject  it, 
going  off  at  a  tangent  by  preference.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind,  he  said,  not  to  fret  his  kidneys  any 
more  over  his  wife's  absence.  She  would  come 
round  before  long,  and  eat  humble  pie  for  having 
made  such  a  fool  of  herself.  He  preferred  the 


144  A  LIKELY  STORY 

expression  "  damn  fool,"  but  chivalry  limited  its 
utterance  to  a  semi-so^o  voce.  "  I  might  get  a 
letter  from  her  any  minute,"  said  he.  "  Why, 
when  the  post  came  just  now,  I  fully  expected  it 
was  a  letter  from  her."  He  appeared  to  confuse 
between  expectation's  maximum  and  its  realiza- 
tion. "  There  he  is  again.  I  shouldn't  be  the  least 
surprised  if  this  one  was." 

He  left  the  room  with  a  transparent  parade  of 
deliberation.  But  before  he  had  reached  the  stair- 
case the  postman  knocked  again,  and  Mr.  Aiken 
came  back  saying :  "  It  isn't  her.  It's  something 
that  won't  go  in  the  box."  This  was  slack  language 
and  slack  reasoning — confusion  confounded.  But 
Mr.  Aiken  retired  on  it  with  dignity,  saying :  "  Mrs. 
Parples  attends  to  the  door." 

The  something  continued  to  refuse,  audibly,  to 
go  in  the  box,  and  Mrs.  Parples  didn't  attend  to  the 
door.  The  postman  put  all  his  soul  into  a  final 
knock,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  leaving,  half- 
out,  what  may  be  only  an  advertisement,  or  may 
be  vital  to  your  hereafter,  or  somebody's ;  "  and 
then  washed  his  hands  of  it  and  took  up  Next 
Door's  case.  Mr.  Aiken  listened  for  Mrs.  Parples, 
who  remained  in  abeyance,  and  then  went  out  again 
and  returned  with  a  very  ill-made-up  consignment 
indeed,  and  a  normal  square  envelope  with  a  be- 
spoken "  M "  embossed  on  its  flap,  directed  in 


A  LIKELY  STORY  145 

an  upright  hand,  partly  robust,  partly  esthetic,  an 
expression  applied  nowadays  to  anything  with  a 
charm  about  it.  This  handwriting  had  one. 

"  Parples  is  sleeping  peacefully,"  said  Mr.  Aiken. 
"  It  would  be  a  shame  to  disturb  Parples.  I  know 
who  this  is."  He  opened  the  envelope  with 
difficulty,  but  looked  stroked  and  gratified.  The 
latter  was  from  his  very  sincerely  Madeline  Up  well. 
Just  you  notice  any  male  friend  of  yours  next  time 
you  have  a  chance  of  seeing  one  open  a  letter  from 
youth  and  beauty  which  remains — however  theo- 
retically— his  very  sincerely,  and  see  if  he  doesn't 
look  stroked  and  gratified. 

Mr.  Hughes  picked  up  the  delivery  that  had  given 
the  letter-box  so  much  trouble,  and  looked  through 
it  at  each  end.  Mr.  Aiken  was  busy  reading  his 
letter  over  and  over;  so  he  could  only  throw  out 
a  sideways  carte-blanche  to  Mr.  Hughes  to  unpack 
the  inner  secret  of  the  roll.  This  was  what  he  was 
reading : 

"  DEAR  MK.  AIKEN, 

"  I  think  you  may  like  a  copy  of  the  photo  Cap- 
tain Calverley  (who  perhaps  you  will  remember  came 
with  me  to  your  Studio)  made  of  this  beautiful  pic- 
ture, which  I  am  never  tired  of  looking  at.  I  think 
it  so  good.  Please  accept  it  from  us  if  you  care  to 
have  it.  Believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Aiken,  with  kind 


146  A  LIKELY  STORY 

regards  to  yourself  and  Mrs.  Aiken,  in  which  my 
mother  joins, 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  MADELINE  UPWELL. 

"  P.S. — I  know  you  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that 
Captain  Calverley's  regiment  is  ordered  out  to  South 
Africa.  Of  course,  it  makes  us  very  anxious." 

"  Transparent  sort  of  gurl !  "  said  Mr.  Hughes, 
when  Mr.  Aiken  read  the  letter  aloud  to  him.  "  Of 
course,  Captain  Carmichael's  her  sweetheart.  Any- 
body can  see  that  with  half  an  eye." 

"  Calverley,"  said  Mr.  Aiken.  "  Yes — they  get 
like  that  when  it's  like  that."  And  both  pondered 
a  little,  smoking,  over  the  peculiarities  of  humanity, 
especially  that  inexplicable  female  half  of  it. 
"  Chuck  it  over  here  and  let's  have  a  look  at  it,"  he 
added,  and  Mr.  Hughes  chucked  him  over  the 
photograph.  He  contemplated  it  for  a  moment  in 
silence ;  then  said :  "I  expect  she  wasn't  far  out, 
after  all.  Euphemia,  I  mean." 

"  Chuck  it  back  again  and  let's  have  another 
look,"  said  Mr.  Hughes.  Mr.  Aiken  did  so,  and  let 
him  have  the  other  look.  "  Yes,"  said  he.  "  They 
went  it  in  Italy,  about  that  time,  don't  you  know! 
Fifteenth  or  sixteenth  century.  That  sort  of 
thing !  "  For  Mr.  Hughes  knew  a  lot  about  Italy, 
and  could  quote  Browning.  He  uncrickled  a  result 


A  LIKELY  STORY  147 

of  the  shape  of  that  letter-box,  or  tried  to,  and  then 
stood  the  photograph  so  that  they  could  both  see 
it,  while  they  talked  of  something  else,  against  the 
gres-de-Flandres  straight-up  pot  that  was  so  handy 
to  stand  brushes  in,  like  umbrellas. 

They  had  plenty  to  talk  about,  because  at  this 
time  the  Idea  of  Mr.  Hughes  that  was  destined  to 
fill  so  important  an  horizon  in  the  History  of  Modern 
Art,  and  was  also  pregnant  with  incalculable  con- 
sequences to  several  things  or  persons,  besides 
having  an  indirect  bearing  on  several  others,  and 
challenging  the  bedrock  of  Modern  Art  Criticism — 
for  it  had  the  courage  of  its  convictions,  and  stuck 
at  nothing — this  Idea  was  taking  form  slowly  but 
surely,  and  was  already  making  itself  felt  in  more 
ways  than  one.  It  was  easy  to  laugh  at  it — this 
was  indisputable — but  he  who  lived  longest  would 
see  most.  It  had  a  future  before  it,  and  if  you 
would  only  just  wait  twenty  years,  you  would  see 
if  it  hadn't.  You  mark  the  words  of  its  disciple, 
whoever  he  was  you  were  talking  to — that  was  all 
he  said — and  see  if  he  wasn't  right!  He  was  a 
little  indignant — some  samples  of  him — with  audi- 
ences who  decided  to  wait,  his  own  enthusiasm 
believing  that  the  results  might  be  safely  anticipated. 
However,  the  Idea  prospered,  there  is  no  doubt  of 
that,  and  the  circle  of  enthusiasts  who  had  leagued 
themselves  together  to  foster  it  and  promote  a  true 


148  A  LIKELY  STORY 

understanding  of  it  had  already  taken  premises, 
and  their  telephone  number  was  692,423  Western. 

"  It's  true,"  said  Mr.  Hughes,  "  that  the  light  in 
the  Galleries  is  bad,  and  the  hot-air  system  of 
warming  will  destroy  any  ordinary  oil  picture  in 
a  month.  But  altering  all  that  is  the  merest 
question  of  money — comes  off  the  guarantee  fund, 
in  fact.  And  one  thing  nobody  but  a  fool  can  help 
seein',  at  the  first  go  off,  is  that  the  Galleries  are 
rum.  Rumness  is  half  the  battle."  This  expressed 
so  deep  and  indisputable  a  truth  that  Mr.  Aiken 
could  not  assent  strongly  enough  in  mere  words. 
He  nodded  rapidly  and  most  expressively,  without 
speech.  However,  when  he  had  reached  the  natural 
limits  of  a  nod's  assenting  power,  he  added,  "  Right 
you  are,  Stumpy,  my  boy.  Gee  up ! "  and  Mr. 
Hughes  resumed : 

"  I  ain't  sayin',  mind  you,  Crocky,  that  any  sort 
of  hocus-pocus  is  justifiable  in  any  case.  When  I 
use  the  expression  '  rum,'  I  am  keepin'  in  view  the 
absolute  necessity  for  a  receptive  attitude  of  mind 
in  the  visitor  to  the  Galleries.  Tell  me  such  an  at- 
titude of  mind  is  possible  without  a  measure  of  rum- 
ness  as  a  stimulant,  and  I  say  '  Humbug ! ' 

Mr.  Aiken  said  again,  "  Right  you  are,  Stumpy." 
But  he  did  not  rise  to  enthusiasm — seemed  low  and 
depressed. 

"  It   all  connects  with  the  fundamental  root   of 


A  LIKELY  STORY  149 

the  Idea,"  Mr.  Hughes  continued.  "  No  one  would 
be  more  repugnant  than  myself  to  any  ramification 
in  the  direction  of  Wardour  Street  .  .  .  you  under- 
stand me  ?  .  .  . " 

"Rather!"  said  Mr.  Aiken.  And  he  seemed  to 
do  so.  It  is  not  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  this 
story  to  prove  that  either  of  these  gentlemen  un- 
derstood what  they  were  talking  about,  or  anything 
else,  but  their  conversation  has  a  bearing  on  their 
respective  characters  and  their  preoccupations  at  this 
moment,  which  are  part  of  it. 

Mr.  Hughes  had  mounted  a  rhetorical  hobby,  and 
wished  to  have  his  ride.  He  rigged  up  three  fingers 
of  his  left  hand,  holding  them  in  front  of  him  to 
check  off  three  heads  on,  as  soon  as  he  should  come 
to  that  inevitable  stage.  He  did  not  know  what 
they  would  be,  but  his  instinctive  faith  made 
nothing  of  that.  They  would  be  needed,  all  in  good 
time. 

"  I  am  not  saying,"  he  pursued,  "  that  Wardour 
Street,  in  its  widest  sense,  has  nothing  to  recom- 
mend it.  I  am  not  saying  that  it  makes  no  appeal. 
I  am  not  disputing  its  historical  and  ethical  stand- 
points .  .  .  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  "  This  was  a 
concession  to  the  difficulties  that  await  the  orator 
who  expects  to  round  up  his  sentences.  Mr.  Aiken 
interjected,  to  help  this  one  out  of  an  embarrass- 
ment : 


150  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Couldn't  be  better  put !  Let  it  go  at  that ;  " 
and  knocked  some  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

Mr.  Hughes  was  grateful,  because  he  had  had  no 
idea  what  to  say  next.  His  indebtedness,  however, 
had  to  be  ignored ;  else,  what  became  of  Dignity  ? 
An  enlarged  manner  accepted  a  laurel  or  two  due 
to  lucidity,  as  he  continued:  "But  I  do  say  this, 
that,  considered  as  a  basis — perhaps  I  should  say 
a  fulcrum — or  shall  I  say  as  a  working  hypothesis  of 
the  substratum  or  framework  of  the  Idea?  .  .  ." 
The  speaker  hesitated. 

"  That's  the  safest  way  to  put  it,"  said  Mr. 
Aiken,  but  rather  gloomily.  He  was  re-lighting  his 
pipe. 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Hughes  judicially.  "  Con- 
sidered as  ...  what  I  said  just  now  .  .  .  "War- 
dour  Street  is,  to  my  thinkin',  played  out.  Quite 
distinctly  played  out.  .  .  .  What's  that  ?  " 

"  What's  what  ? "  The  questions  seemed  to 
refer  to  something  heard  and  unheard,  by  each 
speaker  respectively.  Mr.  Aiken  did  not  press  for 
an  answer,  but  went  to  the  door,  persuading  his 
pipe  to  draw  by  the  way.  "  Want  anything,  Mrs. 
Parples  ? "  said  he,  looking  out.  But  no  answer 
came.  "  Mrs.  P.  is  sleeping  happily  in  the 
kitchen,"  said  he,  returning.  "  It  wasn't  her.  It 
was  an  effect  of  something." 

"  I  suppose  it  was.     Thought  I  heard  it,  too." 


A  LIKELY  STORY  151 

Perhaps,  if  you  ever  chanced  to  hear  a  conversa- 
tion about  nobody  could  exactly  say  what,  you 
noticed  that  nobody  did  say  anything  very  exactly, 
and  everybody  talked  like  these  two  gentlemenr 
who  certainly  had  heard  something,  but  who 
decided  that  they  hadn't,  because  they  couldn't  find 
out  what  it  was.  It  was  too  slight  to  discuss. 

They  each  said  "  Rum !  "  and  settled  down  to 
chat  again,  after  turning  down  the  gas,  which  made 
a  beastly  glare.  Mr.  Hughes  had  forgotten  about 
the  three  heads,  though,  and  taken  his  fingers  down. 
He  did,  however,  pursue  the  topic  which  claimed 
his  attention,  having  embarked  upon  it,  and  feeling 
bound  to  conduct  it  to  a  close.  He  said  something 
to  this  effect,  and  we  hope  our  report  is  fairly 
accurate.  He  certainly  appeared  to  say  that  some- 
thing, which  could  hardly  have  been  anythingr 
grammatically,  but  the  close  to  which  he  conducted 
the  topic,  embodied  the  point  which  underlay  the 
whole  of  the  extensive  area  which  the  Idea  opened  up 
for  development,  and  turned  upon  the  indisputable 
truth  that  the  Highest  Art — sculpture,  music, 
painting,  poetry — is  never  intelligible  to  the  ver- 
nacular mind.  How  could  any  inference  be  more 
incontestable  than  that  no  Art  could  rise  above 
mediocrity  until  a  quorum  of  commonplace  persons 
should  be  found  honestly  incapable  of  attaching 
any  meaning  to  it?  By  making  unintelligibility  to 


152  A  LIKELY  STORY 

the  banal  mind  a  criterion  of  superiority  in  Art,  we 
established  a  Standard  of  Criticism,  and  eliminated 
from  consideration  a  wilderness  of  insipidity  which 
Mr.  Hughes  did  not  hesitate  to  call  a  nightmare. 
For  his  part,  he  was  so  confident  that  the  system 
of  Negative  Juries,  as  they  had  been  called,  was 
sounder  than  any  appeal  to  popular  applause  that 
he  was  quite  willing  that  his  own  work  should  stand 
or  fall  by  the  decision  of  the  Commonplace  Intelli- 
gence as  to  which  side  up  the  picture  should  be 
looked  at.  He  would  go  that  length,  and  take  the 
consequences.  Let  the  Selection  Committee  of  their 
proposed  Annual  Exhibition  consist  entirely  of  such 
Intelligences,  and  let  the  Hanging  Committee  hang 
all  the  pictures  they  were  unable  to  make  head  or  tail 
of,  and  such  a  galaxy  of  productions  of  Genius  would 
be  accumulated  every  year  on  their  walls  as  the  World 
had  never  before  seen. 

"  Not  work  in  practice  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hughes,  re- 
plying to  a  morose  doubt  of  Mr.  Aiken's.  "  Just 
you  redooce  it  to  practice.  Take  the  case  that 
your  Jury  guesses  the  subject  of  a  picture.  Out 
it  goes!  Did  you  ever  know  that  class  able  to 
make  head  or  tail  of  the  subject  of  a  work  of  Genius  ? 
Gradual  and  infallible  elimination,  my  boy — that's 
the  ticket ! "  The  speaker,  who,  though  perhaps 
rather  an  idiot — only,  mind  you,  he  was  subject  now 
and  then  to  something  almost  like  Inspiration — threw 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  153 

himself  back  in  his  chair  as  though  he  had  exhausted 
the  subject,  and  might  rest. 

"  Don't  b'lieve  it  would  work/'  said  Mr.  Aiken, 
sucking  at  his  pipe.  But  he  was  evidently  in  a 
temper  this  evening,  and  Mr.  Hughes  paid  no 
attention  to  his  nonsense.  However,  it  was  no  use 
talking  about  the  Idea  to  him  until  he  was  more 
sympathetic.  He  would  come  right  presently. 

To  cajole  him  into  a  better  frame  of  mind,  Mr. 
Hughes  began  talking  of  something  else.  "  Queer 
sort  of  Studio,  this  of  yours,  Crocky,"  said  he. 

"  What  do  you  make  out's  queer  about  it, 
Stumpy  \  "  said  Mr.  Aiken. 

"  Such  peculiar  echoes !  " 

"  I  don't  hear  any  echoes." 

"  Well,  when  you  went  to  the  door — you  heard 
that?" 

"  Oh,  that  wasn't  an  echo :  that  was  somebody 
spoke  outside." 

"  Somebody  spoke  outside  ?  What  did  she  say  ? 
What  was  it  you  heard  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  say.     What  did  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  I  heard  sounded  like  l  Where  is 
Mrs.  Aiken  ? '  You  shut  up  and  listen  a  minute." 
Mr.  Aiken  accepted  the  suggestion,  and  the  two  sat 
listening  in  the  half -dark. 

Now,  whenever  sounds  are  listened  for,  they  show 
a  most  obliging  spirit,  becoming  audible  where 


A  LIKELY  STORY 

you  thought  silence  was  going  on  peacefully  alone. 
The  first  sound  that  made  Mr.  Hughes  say  "  There 
now ! — what's  that  ?  "  turned  out  to  be  the  gas, 
which,  at  a  carefully  chosen  point,  rippled.  The 
next  proved  to  be  an  intermittent  spring  fizzing  on 
the  hot  stove  from  a  water- jar  placed  upon  it. 
The  third  was  a  spontaneous  insect  unknown  to 
Entomology,  which  had  faced  the  difficulties  of 
self-making,  behind  the  skirting,  and  evidently  was 
not  going  to  remain  a  mere  cipher.  The  fourth 
was  something  or  other  that  squeaked  on  the  table, 
and  if  one  changed  the  places  of  things,  noises  like 
that  always  stopped.  So  Mr.  Aiken  shifted  the 
things  about,  and  said  Mr.  Hughes  would  see  that 
would  stop  it.  He  faced  the  responsibilities  of  the 
Investigator  by  quenching  the  phenomenon,  a  time- 
honoured  method.  He  wrapped  up  the  photograph, 
and  put  it  away  in  a  drawer  to  show  to  Euphemia. 
It  would  be  interestin'  to  see  if  she  recognized  it. 
.  .  .  Oh  yes !  she  would  be  back  in  the  next  few 
days — sure  to! 

And  Mr.  Hughes  saw  that  the  shifting  about  of 
the  things  on  the  table  had  stopped  the  noise  he 
called  an  echo,  and  what  more  could  he  or  anybody 
want?  So  he  sat  down  again  and  had  some  toddy, 
and  talked  about  the  Idea.  And  towards  one  in 
the  morning  he  got  the  opportunity  of  checking  off 
three  heads  on  his  three  fingers,  and  feeling  that 


A  LIKELY  STORY  155 

he  ought  to  have  been  in  Parliament.  He  had  felt 
previously  rather  like  a  Seneschal  with  three  spears 
vacant  over  his  portcullis,  longing  for  a  healthy  de- 
capitation to  give  them  employment. 

The  foregoing  chapter,  apart  from  the  way  in 
which  it  emphasizes  Mr.  Aiken's  loneliness  and  dis- 
content as  a  bachelor,  would  be  just  as  well  left 
out  of  the  story,  but  for  the  seemingly  insignificant 
incident  of  the  echo,  or  whatever  it  was,  which 
might  have  been  unintelligible  if  referred  to  here- 
after, without  its  surroundings. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FOLLOWS  MRS.  EUPHEMIA  AIKEN  TO  COOMBE  AND  MALDEN. 
PBOPEB  PRIDE.  YOU  CANNOT  GO  BACK  ON  A  RAILWAY  TICKET, 
HOWEVER  SMALL  ITS  PRICE.  ONE'S  AUNTS.  HOW  MISS 
PRISCILLA  BAX  WAS  NOT  SURPRISED  WHEN  SHE  HEARD  IT 
WAS  REGINALD.  OF  THE  UPAS  TREE  OF  REPUTATIONS — THE 
PURE  MIND.  HOW  AUNT  PRISCEY  WORKED  HER  NIECE  UP. 
A  DEXTEROUS  CITATION  FROM  EPISTLES.  NEVER  WRITE  A 
LETTER,  IF  YOU  WANT  THE  WIND  TO  LULL.  ELLEN  JANE 
DUDBURY  AND  HER  MAMMA.  OF  JU-JITSU  AS  AN  ANTIDOTE 
TO  TATTLE.  OF  THE  RELATIVE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMMORTALITY 
TO  THE  TWO  SEXES.  OF  GOOD  SOULS  AND  BUSY  BODIES,  AND 
OF  THE  GROOBS.  HOW  THAT  ODIOUS  LITTLE  DOLLY  WAS  THE 
MODERN  ZURBABAN.  BUT  HE  HAD  NEVER  SO  MUCH  AS 
CALLED.  COLOSSIANS  THREE-EIGHTEEN.  MISS  JESSIE  BAX 
AND  HER  PUPPY.  MISS  VOLUMNIA  BAX.  THE  DELICACY  OF 
THE  FEMALE  CHARACTER.  OF  THE  RADIO-ACTIVITY  OF  SPACE 
AND  HOW  MR.  ADOLPHUS  GROOB  SAT  NEXT  TO  MRS.  AIKEN. 
THE  GODFREY  PYBUSES.  BUT  THEY  HAVE  NOTHING  TO  DO 
WITH  THE  STORY.  HOW  TIME  SLIPPED  BY,  AND  HOW  MB. 
AIKEN  EMPLOYED  HIM  TILL  THE  YEAR  DREW  TO  AN  END 

EUPHEMIA  AIKEN,  be  it  understood,  had  not 
brought  definition  to  bear  on  her  motives  for  run- 
ning away  to  her  Aunt  Priscilla  at  Coombe.  It 
seemed  the  nearest  handy  way  of  expressing  her  in- 
dignation at  her  profligate  husband's  conduct — that 
was  all. 

By  the  time  she  had  got  to  Clapham  Junction  her 
indignation  had  begun  to  cool.  But  no  ruction 

156 


A  LIKELY  STORY  157 

would  hold  out  for  five  minutes  if  it  depended  on 
legitimate  indignation.  Unfortunately,  when  that 
emotion  gets  up,  it  always  awakens  pride,  with  whom 
— or  which — it  has  been  sleeping.  And  pride,  once 
roused — and  she  or  it  is  not  a  sound  sleeper — 
won't  go  to  bed  again  on  any  terms,  not  even  when 
indignation  is  quite  tired  out,  and  ready  for  another 
snooze.  So  when  Euphemia  got  to  Clapham  Junc- 
tion, it  was  not  her  drowsy  indignation  that  made 
tip  its  mind  she  should  take  a  third-class  single 
ticket,  but  her  proper  pride,  which  said  peremp- 
torily that  even  a  weekly  return  would  be  absurd. 
Besides,  there  weren't  any  weekly  returns.  Be- 
sides, it  was  only  threepence  difference.  Anyhow, 
she  wasn't  going  to  come  back  till  she  had  given 
Reginald  a  severe  lesson.  Her  condition  of  mind 
was  no  doubt  the  one  her  husband  described  by 
an  expression  obscure  in  itself,  but  too  widely  ac- 
cepted to  be  refused  a  place  in  the  language.  He 
said  that  her  monkey  was  up. 

There  is  a  sense  of  the  irrevocable  about  the 
taking  of  a  railway  ticket.  Even  when  it  is  only 
ninepence-halfpenny — the  sum  Euphemia  paid  to  go 
third  to  Coombe  and  Maiden — one's  soul  says,  as 
the  punch  bites  a  piece  viciously  out  of  it,  that  the 
die  is  cast.  If  you  were  to  hear  suddenly  that 
bubonic  plague  had  broken  out  at,  for  instance, 
Pegwell  Bay,  you  having  booked  to  Ramsgate, 


158  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

would  not  you  feel  committed  to  your  visit,  plague 
or  no  ?  Would  not  your  wife  say,  "  But  we  have 
taken  our  tickets "  ?  Ours  would.  Was  it  any 
wonder  that,  with  Pride  at  her  elbow  and  her  ticket 
inside  her  glove,  Mrs.  Reginald  Aiken  resisted  a 
faint  temptation  to  get  out  at  Wimbledon  and  go 
back  by  the  next  up  train  that  would  promise  to 
stop  at  Clapham  Junction  ?  The  story  cannot  pre- 
tend it  is  sorry  she  did  not,  because  it  would  have 
lost  all  interest  for  the  general  reader  by  her  do- 
ing so. 

We  ourselves  believe  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Miss  Priscilla  Bax,  she  might  have  returned  to  her 
husband  next  day.  The  human  race  has,  however, 
to  stand  or  fall  by  its  aunts,  as  it  finds  them,  they 
being  almost  always  faits  accomplis  when  its  com- 
ponent individuals  are  born.  Miss  Bax  had  been 
one  some  forty  years  when  her  niece  Euphemia  came 
on  the  scene,  and  one  of  the  good  lady's  strong  points 
was  the  low  opinion  she  had  of  persons  who  married 
into  her  family.  She  was,  however,  a  kind-hearted 
old  lady,  in  spite  of  her  disapproval  of  her  niece's 
choice  of  a  husband,  and  his  choice  of  a  profession; 
and  had  not  only  countenanced  the  marriage,  but 
had  allowed  the  couple,  as  above  related,  a  hundred 
a  year.  Being  the  only  well-off  member  of  her 
family,  she  was  expected  to  do  this  sort  of  thing. 
Like  the  well-off  members  of  other  families,  she 


A  LIKELY  STORY  159 

was  only  permitted  to  have  property  on  condition 
that  she  did  not  keep  it  for  herself. 

When  Euphemia's  cab  from  the  station  drove  her 
up  to  Athabasca  Villa,  her  aunt's  residence,  this 
lady  had  got  through  her  seven  o'clock  dinner,  and 
couldn't  imagine  who  that  could  possibly  be.  It 
was  such  a  queer  time  for  visitors.  It  must  be  a 
mistake.  She  was  so  satisfied  of  this  that  she  in- 
augurated a  doze,  listening  through  its  preamble  for 
something  to  explain  the  mistake.  She  was  betrayed 
by  the  doze,  which  might  have  had  a  minute's  pa- 
tience, and  was  roused  from  what  it  insidiously  be- 
came by  a  voice,  saying  guardedly :  "  Oh  dear,  I'm 
afraid  I  waked  you  up !  " 

"  I  was  not  asleeep,"  said  Miss  Priscilla,  with 
dignity,  kissing  the  owner  of  the  voice.  "  I  was 
listening."  However,  it  took  time  to  wake  quite 
up,  and  until  that  happened  the  old  lady  did  not 
fully  grasp  the  surprising  character  of  so  late  a 
visit;  and  indeed,  until  she  became  aware  that  a 
box  was  being  carried  upstairs,  had  but  dreamy 
impressions  of  the  event.  In  time  reality  dawned, 
and  she  showed  it  by  saying :  "  I  suppose,  Euphemia, 
you  will  want  your  bed  made  up." 

As  this  was  the  case,  and  no  human  ingenuity 
could  soften  the  fact,  Mrs.  Aiken  only  said :  "I 
know  it's  very  troublesome." 

To  which  Miss   Priscilla   replied :    "  Nothing   is 


160       .  A  LIKELY  STORY 

troublesome,  so  long  as  you  only  say  distinctly. 
Now,  do  you  want  anything  to  eat?  Because  din- 
ner is  taken  away."  Reviving  decision,  after  sleep, 
became  emphatic.  Self-respect  called  for  self- 
assertion. 

Mrs.  Aiken  shuffled.     She  wasn't  hungry,  she  said. 

"  Have  you  had  dinner  ?  Because  if  you  have  not 
had  dinner,  you  must  have  dinner.  Ring  the  bell 
twice,  and  Pemphridge  will  come." 

Pemphridge  came,  and  could  warm  the  chicken. 
Pemphridge  did  warm  the  chicken,  and  Mrs.  Aiken 
hardly  touched  it.  After  which  she  returned,  look- 
ing extremely  miserable,  to  her  aunt  in  the  drawing- 
room,  who  said  majestically :  "  And  now  perhaps, 
Euphemia,  you  will  tell  me  what  all  this  means." 

"  It's  Reginald,"  said  Euphemia. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  But  you  don't  know  yet." 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever.  But  I  am  not  sur- 
prised. Is  it  reasonable,  Euphemia,  to  expect  me  to 
be  surprised?  After  what  I  have  so  frequently  had 
occasion  to  say.  But  I  am  quite  prepared  to  hear 
that  I  have  said  no  such  thing.  Pray  tell  me  any- 
thing you  like.  I  will  not  contradict  you."  Aunt 
Priscilla  assumed  a  rigid  continuousness,  as  of  one 
who  forms  to  receive  aspersions.  Truth  will  triumph 
in  the  end;  meanwhile  there  is  no  harm  in  portend- 
ing that  triumph  by  an  aggressive  stony  patience. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  161 

"  Only  you  don't  know  what  it  is,  Aunt  Priscey," 
said  her  niece.  No  more  she  did,  speaking  academ- 
ically. She  was,  however,  quite  prepared  for  every 
contingency. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  are  the  person  to  say  that 
to  me,  Euphemia,  seeing  that  you  have  told  me 
nothing — absolutely  nothing!  But  I  can  wait." 
She  waited.  As  she  lay  face  upwards  on  the  sofa — 
the  nearest  approach  to  an  Early  Victorian  recum- 
bent effigy  that  the  Nature  of  things  permits — she 
presented  the  appearance  of  a  deserving  person 
floating  on  her  back  in  a  sea  of  exasperation.  Un- 
less this  image  justifies  itself,  it  must  be  condemned. 
Nothing  in  literature  can  excuse  it. 

Mrs.  Euphemia  was  so  used  to  her  aunt,  with 
whom  she  had  lived  since  the  death  of  her  parents 
fifteen  years  since,  that  she  knew  she  might  never 
get  a  better  moment  than  this  for  telling  the  story 
of  her  passage  of  arms  with  her  husband.  She  there- 
fore embarked  on  a  narrative  of  the  events  we  know, 
and  contrived  to  get  them  told,  in  spite  of  interrup- 
tions, the  nature  of  which,  after  the  foregoing  sample 
of  Aunt  Priscilla,  we  can  surmise.  Neither  need 
be  repeated. 

Thereafter  followed  a  long  conversation,  the  sub- 
stance of  which  has  already  been  given.  Its  effect 
was  to  try  Mrs.  Euphemia's  faith  in  her  husband — 
which  still  existed,  mind  you ! — very  severely.  Have 


'162  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

you  ever  noticed — but  of  course  you  have — that 
when  Inexperience  testifies  to  the  sinfulness  of  the 
human  race  passim,  Average  Experience  hides  her 
diminished  head,  and  does  not  venture  on  whatever 
there  is  to  be  said  on  behalf  of  the  culprit.  A 
shocking  race,  no  doubt,  but  scarcely  so  bad  as  pure 
minds  paint  it !  Old  single  ladies  have  pure  minds, 
as  often  as  not,  and  wield  them  with  a  fiendish 
dexterity,  polishing  off  Lancelot  and  Galahad, 
Modred  and  Arthur  himself,  all  in  a  breath.  Which 
of  us  dares  to  try  a  fall  with  a  pure-minded  person, 
in  defence  of  his  sex,  or  anyone  else's?  Miss 
Priscilla,  having  a  pure  mind  and  getting  the  bit 
in  her  teeth  in  connection  with  her  nephew-in-law's 
shortcomings,  bolted,  and  dragged  her  niece  after 
her  through  an  imaginary  Society  compounded  of 
London  in  the  days  of  the  Regency  and  Rome  in 
the  days  of  Tiberius,  with  a  touch  of  impending 
Divine  vengeance  in  the  bush,  justifying  reference 
to  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  She  succeeded  in  making 
the  young  woman  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  and 
causing  the  quarrel  to  assume  proportions — which  is 
what  things  that  get  bigger  are  understood  to  do 
nowadays — such  as  it  never  dreamed  of  at  first. 
For  Mrs.  Euphemia's  scheme  of  life  allowed  for  ever- 
lasting bickerings,  never-ending  recriminations,  last 
words  ad  libitum,  short  tiffs,  long  tiffs,  tempersome- 
ness  and  proper  spirit — all,  in  fact,  that  makes  life 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  163 

drag  in  families — but  always  under  chronic  con- 
ditions that  precluded  a  crisis.  If  her  worthy  aunt's 
suggestion  that  this  incident  of  Sairah  was  the 
merest  spark  from  ignes  suppositos  cineri,  and  that 
her  husband  had  never  been  even  as  good  as  he 
should  be — if  this  indicated  a  true  view  of  his 
character,  she  for  one  wasn't  going  to  put  up  with 
such  conduct,  Corinthians  or  no!  This  was  a 
crisis,  only  it  was  one  that  never  would  have  come 
about  but  for  Miss  Priscilla.  So,  as  we  mentioned 
some  time  since,  Mrs.  Euphemia  cried  herself  to 
sleep,  and  next  day,  galled  by  ill-considered  moral 
precepts  about  the  whole  duty  of  Woman,  wrote  an 
infuriated  letter  to  her  dear  Reginald — not  her 
dearest;  she  might  have  any  number  of  dearer 
Reginalds  on  draught — stating  at  a  very  high  figure 
the  amount  of  penance  she  would  make  a  necessary 
condition  of  reconciliation,  and  even  then  it  would 
never  be  the  same  thing  underlined.  She  was, 
however,  so  completely  the  slave  of  a  beautiful 
disposition,  that  no  course  was  open  to  her  but 
forgiveness,  subject  only  to  a  reduction  of  some 
ninety-percent,  at  the  dictation  of  a  rarely  sensi- 
tive consciousness  of  obligation  to  Duty,  which  she 
gave  him  to  understand  was  her  ruling  passion. 
The  letter  demanded  the  assimilation  of  an  amount 
of  humble  pie  outside  practical  politics — so  Mr. 
Aiken  said  to  a  friend  after  reading  it;  the  phrase- 


164  A  LIKELY  STORY 

ology  is  his.  He  hadn't  done  anything  to  deserve 
the  character  imputed  to  him  in  language  he  could 
identify  by  the  style  as  Aunt  Priscilla's,  shorn  of 
much  of  its  Scriptural  character.  It  incensed  him, 
and  caused  him  to  write  a  letter  which  widened  the 
breach  between  them.  Then  she  wrote  back,  and 
the  breach  fairly  yawned.  There  is  nothing  so 
effective  as  correspondence  to  consolidate  a  quarrel. 
She  had  been  at  all  times  since  her  marriage  a 
frequent  visitor  enough  at  Athabasca  Villa  for  the 
inquisitiveness  of  her  aunt's  circle  of  friends  to 
remain  unexcited;  for  a  week  or  so,  at  any  rate. 
But  that  good  lady's  unholy  alacrity  in  disclaiming 
all  knowledge  of  her  niece's  domestic  affairs  stimu- 
lated a  premature  curiosity.  When  the  Peter 
Dudburys  called,  Aunt  Priscilla  might  quite  easily 
have  said,  in  reply  to  Mrs.  Peter  Dudbury's  "  And 
how  is  the  Artist  ? "  that  she  believed  the  said 
Artist  was  enjoying  good  health.  Instead  of  which 
she  was  seized  with  a  sort  of  paroxysm,  exclaiming 
very  often :  "  Don't  ask  me !  I  know  nothing 
whatever  about  it.  Nuth,  thing-what,  ever !  "  and 
shaking  her  head  with  her  eyes  tight  shut.  Where- 
upon Ellen  Jane  Dudbury  said,  "  Shishmar!  "  and 
stamped  cruelly  on  her  mother's  foot.  Now  really 
that  amiable  woman  had  only  expanded  into  her 
gushy  inquiry  after  Mr.  Aiken  because  she  knew  that 
she  and  her  three  daughters  had  asked  more  than 


A  LIKELY  STORY  165 

once  after  everyone  else.  She  felt  hurt,  and  re- 
solved to  have  it  out  with  Ellen  Jane,  and  indeed 
began  to  do  so  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  Wellmar,"  said  Ellen  Jane,  "  what  is  one  to  do 
when  you  won't  take  the  slightest  notice  ? "  She 
went  on  to  explain  that  any  person  of  normal 
shrewdness  would  have  seen,  the  moment  Mrs. 
Aiken  made  excuses  and  went  upstairs,  that  there 
was  something.  You  could  always  see  when  there 
was  anything  if  you  chose  to  use  your  eyes.  It  was 
no  use  telling  her — Ellen  Jane,  that  is — that  there 
was  nothing.  She  knew  better.  It  was  compli- 
mentary to  Ellen  Jane's  penetration  that  her  mother 
and  sisters  hoped  aloud  at  the  next  house  where 
they  called  and  captured  the  tenants  to  inquire 
after  them,  that  there  really  was  nothing  between 
young  Mrs.  Aiken  and  her  husband,  and  most  likely 
it  was  all  fancy,  because  there  was  nothing  what- 
ever to  go  upon,  and  such  absurd  stories  did  get 
about. 

To  our  thinking  it  is  clear  that  the  receptivity 
of  the  Peter  Dudburys  was  caused  by  that  paroxysm 
of  Aunt  Priscilla's.  An  adoption  of  a  like  attitude 
with  other  visitors  tended  to  enrich  the  gossip  of 
Coombe  and  Maiden  at  the  expense  of  Mrs.  Euphemia 
Aiken. 

Miss  Priscilla  did  not  have  paroxysms  of  this  class 
in  her  niece's  presence,  so  of  course  the  latter  had 


166  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

the  less  chance  of  guessing  that  the  cause  of  her 
visit  to  Athabasca  Villa  had  become  common  prop- 
erty. She  did,  however,  wake  up  to  the  fact  that 
Coombe  and  Maiden  were  commiserating  her.  The 
impertinence  of  those  neighbourhoods!  She  would 
have  liked  to  knock  their  heads  together.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  no  one  put  commiseration  into  a  con- 
crete form,  such  as  "  How  is  dear  Mr.  Aiken's 
infidelity  going  on  ? "  or  "  We  are  so  shocked  to 
think  how  your  most  sacred  affections  are  being 
lacerated."  Then  she  might  have  flown  at  such 
like  sympathizers  with  a  poker,  or  got  them  down 
and  cricked  their  joints  by  Ju-jitsu.  This  practice 
of  talking  about  everyone  else's  private  affairs  to 
every-other  else,  never  to  their  proprietor,  is  good 
for  our  father  the  Devil,  but  bad  for  his  sons  and 
daughters.  Amen. 

The  truth  is  that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  a 
lady  who  runs  away  from  her  husband  gets  no  sort 
of  credit  or  glory  by  doing  so,  but  only  puts  herself 
in  an  uncomfortable  position ;  unless,  indeed,  she 
takes  up  with  some  other  male,  preferably  a  repro- 
bate. Then  an  unhallowed  splendour  envelops 
her,  and  protects  her  from  the  cards  of  respectability, 
which  has  misgivings  about  her  possible  effect  on 
its  sons  and  husbands.  We  wonder,  is  this  what 
is  meant  when  one  hears  that  some  lady  is  living 
under  the  protection  of  Duke  Baily  or  Duke 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  167 

Humph y?  Are  those — is  one  of  them,  we  mean — 
protecting  her  from  Mrs.  Peter  Dudbury  ?  Honour 
to  his  Grace,  whichever  he  is,  if  he  acts  up  to  his 
description ! 

With  the  nobler  sex  the  reverse  is  the  case. 
Whether  deserting  or  deserted,  he  is  rather  looked 
up  to  by  his  more  securely  anchored  male  friends 
as  the  subject  of  a  wider  and  more  illuminating 
experience  than  their  own.  Of  course,  the  forsaken 
example  does  not  shine  with  the  radiance  of  a  self- 
supporting  inconstancy.  It  may  be  that  he  comes  off 
best  in  the  end,  if  he  is  a  man  of  spirit,  and  finds 
consolation  elsewhere.  For  then  he  can  not  only 
crow,  farmyard-wise,  but  he  has  the  heartfelt  satis- 
faction of  being  an  ill-used  man  into  the  bargain. 
If  he  cottons  to  someone  else's  ill-used  wife,  he  has 
nothing  left  to  wish  for. 

^Nothing  of  all  this  has  any  application  in  this 
story,  unless  it  attaches  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Aiken 
found  some  consolation  in  the  company  of  his 
friends,  while  his  wife  found  none  in  that  of  her 
acquaintances.  As  both  parties  were  perfectly 
blameless  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word — geese 
are  most  blameless  birds — none  of  the  numerous 
advantages  of  wickedness  were  secured  by  either. 
Their  interests  in  Belial  never  vested.  Mrs.  Adken 
never  meant  not  to  go  back  in  the  end,  as  soon  as 
she  had  made  her  husband  knuckle  down,  and  con- 


168  A  LIKELY  STORY 

fess  up.  And  he  was  consciously  keeping  his  home 
unsullied  by  anything  too  Bohemian,  in  order  that 
when  Euphemia  came  back — as  of  course  she  would — 
no  memory  of  the  interregnum  should  clash  with  the 
Restoration. 

Euphemia  had  the  worst  of  it;  but  then  she  was 
the  weaker  party.  If  weaker  parties  take  to  ex- 
pecting the  emoluments  of  stronger  parties,  what  shall 
we  come  to  next?  This  feeling  of  the  unfairness 
of  things  in  general  and  Destiny  in  particular,  tended 
towards  exasperation  and  intensification,  and  the 
South  Cone — metaphors  may  be  fetched  from  any 
distance — remained  up  in  the  districts  of  Coombe 
and  Maiden.  Time  passed  and  Mrs.  Euphemia  had 
perforce  to  endure  the  commiseration  of  those  dis- 
tricts. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Athabasca  Villa  might  be 
classed  as  a  congested  district,  and  its  population 
as  consisting,  broadly  speaking,  of  good  souls  and 
busy  bodies.  Every  resident  was  both,  be  it  under- 
stood. 

"  Oh  yes !  "  said  Euphemia  to  her  aunt,  one  break- 
fast time.  "  Of  course  the  Groobs  are  goodness 
itself.  But  why  can't  they  mind  their  own  busi- 
ness ?  "  For  although  it  may  appear  incredible,  a 
family  residing  in  the  neighbourhood  was  actually 
named  Groob. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Priscilla,  "  do  not  be  un- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  169 

reasonable  and  violent.  Mr.  Latimer  Groob  is,  I 
understand,  a  wine-importer  in  quite  a  large  way  of 
business,  with  more  than  one  retail  establishment; 
and  his  son,  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob,  has,  I  am  told, 
talent.  He  has  had  several  pictures  on  the  line, 
somewhere,  and  comes  down  to  see  his  family  on 
Saturdays,  and  to  stop  till  Monday." 

"  Well,  then !  "  said  Euphemia.  "  It  wasn't  the 
Peter  Dudburys  this  time.  At  least,  it  needn't  have 
been,  for  anything  I  can  see." 

"  Why  not  ?  .  .  .  Do  take  care  of  the  table- 
cloth !  Anne  has  put  one  of  the  best  out  by  mistake. 
I  must  speak  to  her.  .  .  .  Why  not  the  Peter  Dud- 
burys this  time  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  cutting  the  cloth.  The  knife  is  miles 
off.  Why  not  the  Peter  Dudburys?  Why,  be- 
cause I  know  that  odious  little  Dolly  Groob.  He's  a 
friend  of  Reginald's,  and  comes  to  the  Studio.  I 
can  see.  I'm  not  a  baby.  Of  course,  Reginald  has 
been  talking  to  him."  Mrs.  Euphemia  bit  her  lips, 
and  was  under  the  impression  that  her  eyes  flashed. 
But  they  didn't  really — eyes  never  do;  it's  a  facon 
de  parler. 

Miss  Priscilla  ignored  this  petulance.  "  You  had 
better  let  me  pour  you  out  some  fresh  coffee,"  she 
said.  "  Yours  is  getting  cold.  I  cannot  say,  my 
dear,  that  I  think  '  that  odious  little  Dolly  Groob ' 
is  at  all  the  way  to  speak  of  an  artist  who  has  had 


170  A  LIKELY  STORY 

pictures  on  the  line.  And  his  father,  now  I  think  of 
it,  is  in  Paris  also.  Besides,  I  see  he  is  distinguish- 
ing himself  by  his  connection  with  something." 

"With  what?" 

"  It  was  in  yesterday  evening's  paper.  Perhaps 
Anne  hasn't  burned  it.  Anyhow,  I  do  not  think  the 
expression  '  odious  little '  well  chosen.  .  .  .  Oh 
yes — that's  it!  Give  it  to  Miss  Eupheinia."  That 
is  to  say,  Anne  the  parlourmaid,  not  having  burned 
yesterday's  evening  paper,  had  produced  it  as  by 
necromancy,  in  response.  The  way  Aunt  Priscilla 
spoke  of  her  niece  was  an  accident,  not  a  suggestion 
that  Mr.  Aiken  was  cancelled.  It  caused  "  Miss 
Euphemia,"  however,  a  slight  twinge  of  an  inde- 
scribable discomfort.  Possibly,  if  this  is  ever  read 
by  any  lady  who  has  ever  been  in  exactly  the  same 
position,  she  will  understand  why. 

The  story  knows  of  it  because,  when  Anne  had 
left  the  room,  Mrs.  Aiken  looked  up  from  the  news- 
paper, where  she  had  found  what  she  was  looking 
for,  to  say :  "  I  think,  Aunt  Priscey,  you  might  be 
more  careful  before  the  servants." 

Her  aunt  replied  with  dignity :  "  What  you  are 
referring  to,  my  dear  Euphemia,  I  cannot  profess 
to  understand."  Of  course  she  did,  perfectly  well. 
What  she  meant  was,  "  I  know  you  cannot  get  a 
conviction,  so  I  can  tell  a  fib."  Mankind,  securely 
entrenched,  fibs  freely. 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  171 

"  Why — '  Miss  Euphemia,'  of  course !  "  said  the 
niece,  quoting  incisively.  "  But  I  know  it's  no  use 
my  asking  you  to  pay  the  slightest  attention."  She 
became  absorbed  in  her  paper. 

"  I  think  you  are  nonsensical,  my  dear,"  said  the 
aunt.  She  retired  behind  something  morally  equiv- 
alent to  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras;  but  was  still 
audible  outside,  saying:  "I  think  you  might  say 
whether  you  have,  or  have  not,  found  about  Mr. 
Adolphus  Groob." 

The  niece  made  no  response  for  a  moment,  but 
continued  reading;  then  said,  as  one  who,  coming 
up  from  diving,  speaks  without  quite  locating  his 
audience :  "  Oh  yes — there's  about  Mr.  Groob  here. 
I  can't  read  it  all,  there's  such  a  lot.  Is  there  some 
coffee  left  ?  .  .  .  Three-quarters  of  a  cup, 
please !  " 

Please  observe  that,  although  this  aunt  and  niece 
always  conversed  more  or  less  as  if  each  was  strain- 
ing the  patience  of  the  other  past  endurance,  no 
sort  of  ill-will  was  thereby  implied  on  either  part. 
It  may  be  that  it  was  only  that  they  emphasized 
the  ordinary  intercourse  of  British  families.  Per- 
haps you  know  how  much  the  average  foreign  family 
nags,  en  famille.  We  do  not. 

Mrs.  Aiken  read  the  newspaper  paragraph  aloud, 
skipping  portions.  What  she  read  described  the 
formation  of  the  Xew  Modernism,  the  Artistic 


172  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Society  about  which  so  much  was  being  said  among 
well-informed  circles  of  the  Art  World,  with  the 
reservation  that  nothing  must  be  accepted  as  official. 
The  Editor  was  breaking  confidence  in  telling  so 
much;  but  then  he  really  was  unable,  with  that 
pitiful  heart  of  his,  to  bear  the  yearning  faces  and 
heartrending  cries  for  information  of  his  reading 
public.  The  only  course  open  to  him  was  to  put 
aside  all  conscientious  scruples,  and  divulge  what 
had  reached  him,  as  it  were,  under  the  seal  of  con- 
fession. Such  a  thirst  must  be  satiated,  or  worse 
might  come  of  it.  The  object  of  this  Society  was 
to  develop  its  promoters'  ideas,  and  exhibit  their 
works  in  Bond  Street.  The  underlying  theory  of 
their  new  Gospel  of  Art  appeared  to  be — only  the 
writer  did  not  express  it  so  coarsely — that  success 
in  pictorial  effort,  in  the  future,  must  turn  on  the 
artist  never  having  learned  to  draw,  and  not  know- 
ing how  to  paint.  What  was  wanted  was  clearly 
his  unimpaired  Self,  unsoiled  by  the  instruction  of 
the  Schools.  The  near  future  was  entitled  to 
liberation  from  the  stilted  traditions  of  the  remote 
past,  not  only  in  painting,  but  in  Sculpture,  Music, 
Poetry,  the  Drama — what  not.  Here  was  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  beginning,  seized  by  a 
brilliant  coterie  of  talented  young  men,  whom  a  rare 
chance  had  brought  together  under  one  roof.  If 
the  writer  was  not  much  mistaken,  Pimlico  Studios 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  173 

stood  a  fair  chance  of  becoming  the  Mecca  of  the 
Art  World. 

"  I  can't  read  all  this,"  said  the  niece.  "  I  don't 
see  where  Mr.  Groob  comes  in.  Oh  yes — it's  here! 
'  The  Modern  Zurbaran.  .  .  . ' '  This  gentleman 
was,  of  course,  the  artist  familiarly  spoken  of  as 
"  Dolly  "  at  the  Pimlico  Studios.  Mrs.  Aiken  went 
on  reading  to  herself,  and  then  said  suddenly :  "  I 
do  hope  Reginald  won't  be  a  fool,  and  make  himself 
responsible  for  anything." 

"  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  would  be  able  to  tell  us  all 
about  it,"  said  Miss  Priscilla.  "  His  sister  Arethusa 
is  almost  sure  to  call  this  afternoon,  and  you  can  ask 
her  to  find  out." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  I  beg  you 
won't  say  anything  to  her.  I  particularly  dislike 
Mr.  Groob,  and  just  now  nothing  could  be  more  un- 
pleasant to  me.  Please  no  Mr.  Groob  on  any 
account !  " 

"  You  need  not  be  so  testy,  Euphemia.  Nothing 
is  easier  than  for  me  to  make  no  reference  to  Mr. 
Groob,  who  has  never  so  much  as  called.  His  sister 
Arethusa  is,  of  course,  not  the  same  thing  as  he  is 
himself,  but  no  doubt  she  may  know  something  about 
this  Society." 

"  I  thought  her  an  odious  girl.  Anyhow,  I  don't 
want  to  know  anything  at  all  about  the  Society,  and 
it's  no  concern  of  mine.  Reginald  must  go  his  own 


174  A  LIKELY  STORY 

way  now,  and  put  his  name  down  for  subscriptions 
just  as  he  likes.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  shall  answer  his 
last  letter,  but  only  to  say  that,  if  he  wants  me 
to  read  his  next  one,  the  tone  must  be  very  dif- 
ferent." 

Her  aunt  said,  as  one  with  whom  patience  is 
habitual,  and  tolerance  a  foregone  conclusion :  "  It 
is  perfectly  useless  for  me  to  repeat,  Euphemia, 
what  I  believe  to  be  your  duty  as  a  Christian  towards 
your  lawful  husband,  which  Reginald  is  and  con- 
tinues to  be,  however  disgracefully  he  may  have 
behaved;  and  you  acted  with  your  eyes  open  in  the 
face  of  warnings  of  his  lawless  Bohemian  habits. 
He — is — your — HUSBAND,  and  your  obvious  duty 
is  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  do  shut  up  with  Corinthians !  "  was  the  rude, 
impatient,  and  indeed  irreligious  interruption.  "  If 
you  mean  that  a  woman  is  bound  to  put  up  with  any- 
thing and  everything,  no  matter  what  her  husband 
says  or  does  .  .  .  What  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Euphemia,  if  I  have  told  you  once,  I 
have  told  you  fifty  times,  that  it  is  not  Corinthians, 
but  Colossians — Colossians  three-eighteen.  Besides, 
I'm  sure  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell." 

There  was,  and  therefore  the  chronic  guerilla 
warfare — for  this  sort  of  thing  always  went  on  until 
visitors  stopped  it — was  suspended  until  the  next 
opportunity. 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  175 

The  ring  at  the  gate-bell  was — or  was  caused  by — 
Miss  Jessie  Bax,  another  niece,  who  was  shy  and 
seventeen.  She  began  everything  she  said  with 
"  Oh !  "  The  first  words  she  uttered  were,  "  Oh, 
I  mustn't  stop !  "  But  she  had  previously  said  to 
Anne,  at  the  gate,  "  Oh,  I  mustn't  come  in !  "  and 
when  overcome  on  this  point  by  Euphemia,  who 
came  out  and  kissed  her,  not  without  satisfaction — 
because  she  was  that  sort — she  only  just  contrived 
to  say,  "  Oh,  I  only  came  to  bring  these  from 
Yolumnia.  It's  to-morrow  night  at  the  Suburbiton 
Athenaeum,  where  the  Psychomorphic  meets  till  the 
new  rooms  are  ready,  and  she  hopes  you'll  come." 

Miss  Jessie  explained  that  she  was,  strictly  speak- 
ing, an  emanation  from  her  sister  Volumnia.  That 
young  lady  was  thirteen  years  her  senior,  and  was  a 
powerful  individuality.  She  entered  into  inquiries, 
and  advocated  causes.  Miss  Jessica,  on  the  con- 
trary, flirted. 

Was  it,  this  time,  advocating  causes,  or  entering 
into  inquiries?  Mrs.  Aiken,  fearing  the  former, 
was  consoled  when  she  found  it  was  the  latter.  She 
would  look  at  the  Syllabus  tendered,  whatever  it 
was,  and  wouldn't  detain  Miss  Jessie,  whose  anxiety 
not  to  come  in  need  not  have  been  laid  so  much 
stress  on.  It  presently  appeared  that  this  wish  to 
stop  out  was  not  unconnected  with  Charley  Some- 
body, who  was  playing  with  a  puppy  on  the  other 


176  A  LIKELY  STOBY 

side  of  the  road.  A  suggestion  that  Charley  Some- 
body should  come  in  too  was  met  with  so  earnest  a 
disclaimer  of  intention  to  disturb  any  fellow-creature 
anywhere,  at  any  time,  that  it  would  have  been 
sheer  downright  cruelty  to  press  the  point.  So  the 
young  lady  and  Master  Charley,  whoever  he  was, 
escaped,  and  were  heard  whistling  for  the  puppy, 
who  was  getting  quite  good,  and  learning  to  follow 
beautifully. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Aunt  Priscilla. 

"  Oh,  some  reading  papers  and  nonsense,"  said 
her  niece.  "  I  never  have  any  patience  with  that 
sort  of  twaddle.  It  only  irritates  me." 

It  suited  Miss  Priscilla  to  take  up  a  tone  of 
superiority  to  such  childish  petulance,  combined 
with  an  enlightened  attitude  of  open-mindedness, 
and  a  suggestion  of  being  better  informed  than  most 
people  about  what  is  doing.  To  this  end  she  picked 
up  the  prospectus  her  niece  was  ostentatiously 
neglecting,  and  read  it  aloud  in  an  atmosphere 
above  human  prejudices,  specially  designed  for  her 
own  personal  use.  It  related  to  a  lecture  "  On  the 
Attitude  of  Investigation  towards  the  Unknow- 
able," with  magic-lantern  slides,  and  a  discussion  to 
follow.  "  It  does  not  say,"  said  Aunt  Priscilla, 
"  who  is  the  Medium."  It  is  possible  that  the  good 
lady  had  in  her  own  mind  confused  something  with 
something  else.  One  does  sometimes. 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  177 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  go,  if  it  isn't  the 
Suffrage,"  said  Euphemia.  She  took  the  pro- 
spectus, and  seemed  reassured  on  re-reading  it. 
Yes,  she  might  go  if  there  were  pictures  on  a  sheet. 
But  not  if  it  was  to  be  Women's  Rights. 

"  With  your  peculiar,  new,  advanced  views,  my 
dear,"  said  her  aunt,  "  it  certainly  seems  to  me 
that  you  ought  to  sympathize  with  your  cousin." 
This,  however,  was  because  of  Miss  Priscilla's  ex- 
ceptional way  of  looking  at  Social  and  Political 
subjects.  She  divided  all  the  world — the  thought- 
ful world,  that  is — into  two  classes,  the  one  that 
went  in  for  Movements  and  things,  and  the  one  that 
consisted  of  Sensible  Persons.  The  latter  stayed  at 
home  and  minded  their  own  business,  sometimes 
going  for  a  drive  when  it  held  up,  and,  of  course,  to 
Church  on  Sundays,  and  having  hot  cross  buns 
on  Good  Friday,  and  so  on.  She  made  no  distinc- 
tion between  Agitators  on  the  score  of  the  diversity 
of  their  respective  objects.  Could  she  be  expected 
to  differentiate  between  shades  of  opinion  that 
would  now  be  indicated  by  the  terms — then  un- 
invented— of  Suffragettes  and  Anti-Suffragettes? 
Volumnia  Bax  would  have  belonged  to  the  latter 
denomination.  Women,  that  young  lady  said,  were 
not  intended  by  an  All-wise  Providence  to  mix  in 
public  life.  Their  sphere  was  the  Home.  She  be- 
longed to  a  League  whose  chief  object  was  to  prevent 


178  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

women  becoming  unfeminine.  If  it  was  not 
Woman's  own  duty  to  make  a  stand  against  these 
new-fangled  American  notions,  which  could  only  end 
in  her  being  completely  unsexed,  whose  was  it?  If 
she  did  not  exert  herself  to  avert  this  calamity,  who 
would  ?  So  this  League  consisted  entirely  of  women, 
pledged  to  resist,  by  violence  if  necessary,  but  in 
any  case  by  speaking  out  at  meetings,  and  getting  up 
petitions,  and  so  on,  these  insidious  attempts  to  de- 
stroy the  delicacy  of  the  female  character,  which 
from  time  immemorial  had  been  its  principal  charm. 
This  was  the  point  on  which  Aunt  Priscilla  certainly 
failed  in  discrimination,  for  she  drew  no  distinction 
between  the  various  shades  of  political  impulse.  She 
objected  to  anyone  leaving  the  groove,  even  with  the 
motive  of  pushing  others  back  into  it.  Her  niece 
Euphemia  shared  her  views  to  a  great  extent,  and 
when  she  used  the  expression  "  Women's  Rights," 
it  was  probably  in  a  sense  much  less  circumscribed 
than  its  usual  one.  "  But,"  said  she  to  Miss 
Priscilla,  justifying  her  determination  to  go  on  Satur- 
day evening  to  this  lecture,  or  whatever  it  was,  "  it 
can't  be  minutes  and  resolutions  and  jaw,  jaw,  jaw, 
if  there's  a  magic-lantern.  So  do  come,  Aunty 
dear!" 

Miss  Priscilla  gave  way,  and  consented  to  accom- 
pany her  niece,  but  not  without  a  misgiving  that 
she  might  be  compelled  to  come  away  in  the  middle 


A  LIKELY  STORY  179' 

of  the  entertainment.  A  reperusal  of  the  Syllabus 
had  engendered  in  her  mind  a  doubt  whether  it 
was  quite.  That  is  how  she  worded  it.  The  story 
only  chronicles;  it  takes  no  responsibilities. 
Euphemia  assured  her  that  it  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  quite,  seeing  that  so  respectable  an 
Athenaeum  as  the  Suburbiton  would  be  sure  to  be 
most  careful.  Besides,  it  was  Metaphysical. 

So  they  had  the  fly  from  Dulgrove's — as  it 
appears,  and  we  think  we  know  what  is  meant — 
and  Dulgrove's  representative  touched  one  of 
its  hats,  which  was  on  his  own  head,  and  prom* 
ised  upon  the  honour  of  both  to  return  at  half- 
past  ten  to  reimpatriate  the  two  ladies  at  Atha- 
basca Villa,  which  is  two  miles  from  Coombe 
proper. 

Though  Mr.  Groob's  sister  Arethusa  did  not 
happen  to  call,  as  Miss  Priscilla  anticipated,  Mrs. 
Reginald  Aiken  was  destined  to  be  brought  in 
contact  with  her  odious  brother,  the  Artist,  who 
was  acquainted  with  her  husband.  It  happened 
that  Miss  Bax  was  desirous  that  another  brother 
of  Arethusa's  should  come  to  the  lecture.  This 
gentleman,  Mr.  Duodecimus  Groob,  had  a  clear 
head,  and  a  cool  judgment,  and  belonged,  more- 
over, to  a  class  which  is  frequently  referred  to,  but 
whose  members  cannot  always  be  differentiated  with 
certainty,  the  class  of  persons  who  are  not  to  be 


180  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

sneezed  at.  Others  may  be,  without  offence  or  in- 
justice. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  Miss  Jessica  Bax  had  been 
employed  by  her  sister  as  a  species  of  bait  to  induce 
this  gentleman  to  accompany  his  sister  Arethusa — 
who,  of  course,  was  coming  to  the  lecture — by 
sending  her  to  be  driven  over  in  the  Groob  brougham, 
she  herself  accepting  a  lift  from  the  Peter  Tutburys, 
who  had  no  room  for  more  than  one.  Miss  Volumnia, 
you  see,  intended  to  speak  at  the  discussion,  and 
was  naturally  anxious  that  Mr.  Groob  should  bring 
his  clear  head  and  cool  judgment  to  hear  and  appre- 
ciate the  powerful  analysis  she  intended  to  make  of 
the  lecturer's  first  exposition  of  the  subject. 

It  is  impossible  in  this  story  to  enter  at  length 
into  the  intricate  and  difficult  questions  touched 
upon;  but  it  may  be  noted  that  Miss  Volumnia, 
who  had  read  the  typed  manuscript  of  this  lecture, 
was  prepared  to  combat  its  main  argument,  to  take 
exception  to  its  author's  fundamental  standpoint, 
to  scrutinize  fearlessly  his  pretensions  to  Scientific 
accuracy,  and  to  lay  bare  its  fallacies  with  a  merci- 
less scalpel.  She  was  naturally  anxious  that  a 
B.Sc.,  London — for  Mr.  Duodecimus  Groob  was  so 
designate — should  hear  her  do  it,  being  so  close  at 
hand ;  and  when  she  said  to  Jessica,  "  Tell  Arethusa 
I  expect  her  to  bring  a  brother,"  she  did  so  with  a 
shrewd  insight  into  the  souls  of  brothers  whose 


A  LIKELY  STORY  181 

sisters  very  pretty  girls  accompany  to  even  the 
humblest  entertainments — penny  readings  and  what 
not.  This  Mr.  Groob  came,  and  what  was  more, 
Mr.  Adolphus,  whom  we  saw  en  passant  at  Pimlico 
Studios,  accompanied  him.  Both  had  come  to 
stay  till  Monday  at  their  father's  residence — where 
there  were  bronzes  and  Dresden  china  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  ruins  by  Panini  all  round  the 
dining-room,  and  a  Wolf  Hunt,  Snyders,  in  the 
entrance-hall.  We  repeat  that  both  came,  although 
there  was  hardly  room  in  the  small  brougham,  and 
Mr.  Adolphus  had  to  go  on  the  box  and  wrap  up. 
And  our  belief  is  that  if  it  had  been  an  omnibus, 
and  there  had  been  young  men  enough  to  fill  itr 
they  would  all  have  gone  to  that  lecture. 

Insignificant  as  this  visit  to  the  Suburbiton 
Athenaeum  may  seem,  it  has  its  place  in  this  story, 
and  that  place  is  given  to  it  by  its  most  unimportant 
details.  As  you  can  scarcely  be  expected  to  turn 
back  to  it,  please  note  now  what  it  was  that  really 
happened. 

In  the  lobby,  when  Mrs.  Aiken  and  her  aunt 
arrived,  Miss  ^rolumnia  Bax  was,  as  it  were, 
marshalling  Europe.  She  was  a  leading  mind,  over- 
looking gregariousness  through  a  pince-nez.  Gre- 
gariousness  was  shedding  its  fleeces  and  taking  little 
cardboard  tickets  in  exchange. 

"  You    know   Mr.    Adolphus    Groob,"    said    Miss 


182  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Volumnia  to  her  cousin,  sternly,  almost  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Yes — you  know  my  brother,"  said  Miss  Arethusa 
Groob,  confirmatorily.  And  Miss  Priscilla — oh 
dear !  one's  unmanageable  Aunts ! — must  needs,  as  it 
were,  go  over  to  the  enemy,  saying  in  honied  tones, 
with  a  little  powdered  sugar  over  them : 

"  You  know  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob,  Euphemia." 

It  was  quite  the  most  dastardly  desertion  on  rec- 
ord. There  was  nothing  for  it  before  such  an  ac- 
cumulation of  testimony  but  to  plead  guilty.  What 
can  you  do  with  such  treachery  in  the  camp? 
Euphemia  admitted  grudgingly  that  she  knew  Mr. 
Adolphus,  who  had  long  hair  and  was  like  our  idea 
of  a  German  Student.  He,  for  his  part,  was  horribly 
frightened  and  got  away.  For,  you  see,  he  knew 
all  about  the  row  between  Aiken  and  his  wife;  and 
although  in  the  absence  of  that  unearthly  sex,  the 
female  one,  he  was  ready  to  lay  claim  to  a  deep  and 
subtle  knowledge  of  its  ways,  he  was  an  arrant 
coward  in  the  presence  of  a  sample. 

"  I  say,  Bob,"  said  he  aside  to  his  brother  Duo- 
decimus,  using  a  convenient,  if  arbitrary,  abbrevia- 
tion of  that  name. 

"  What's  the  fun,  Dolly  ?  "  said  Bob,  who  was  a 
chap  who  always  made  game  of  everything. 

"Why,  look  here!  When  a  customer  you  know 
quarrels  with  his  wife,  and  she  does  a  bunk  ..." 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  183 

"Sfaewfcrftf" 

"  Hooks  it,  don't  you  know !  Well,  when  she  runs 
away,  and  you  come  across  her,  and  you  know  all 
the  story  about  the  shindy,  being  in  the  beggar's  con- 
fidence, don't  you  see  ? — and  she  knows  you  know  it, 
only,  mind  you,  there's  nothing  exactly  to  swear  by, 
and  you  know  she  knows  you  know  it,  and  she  knows 
you  know  she  knows — up  and  down  and  in  and  out — 
intersectitiously,  don't  you  see  .  .  .  ?  "  But  the 
heroic  effort  to  express  a  situation  we  have  all  had  a 
try  at  and  failed  over  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Adolphus, 
and  his  sentence  remained  unfinished.  Consider  that 
he  had  supplied  an  entirely  new  word,  and  be 
lenient ! 

"Want'n'er  for  yourself,  Dolly?"  said  that 
frivolous,  superficial  beast,  Bob.  "  Don't  you,  that's 
my  advice!  She's  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than 
you.  You'll  look  such  an  ass !  "  Whereupon  Mr. 
Adolphus,  not  without  dignity,  checked  his  brother's 
ill-timed  humour,  pointing  out  that  he  had  done 
nothing  to  deserve  the  imputation  of  personal  motives, 
and  hinting  that  his  well-known  monastic  bias  should 
have  saved  him  from  it. 

"  Very  well,  then ! — let  her  alone !  "  said  Bob. 

"  But  it's  very  embarrassing,  you  must  admit," 
said  Dolly. 

"  H'm ! — don't  see  why." 

"  The  position  is  a  delicate  one." 


184  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Can't  see  where  the  delicacy  comes  in.  You  keep 
out  of  her  way.  She  won't  tackle  you." 

This  was  just  about  the  time  when  the  disengage- 
ment of  their  fleeces  had  enabled  a  congestion  of 
the  flock  to  pass  on  towards  the  lecture-hall,  leaving 
access  clear  to  Miss  Priscilla,  her  niece,  and  others. 
Euphemia's  fleece  was  one  that  gave  trouble;  she 
said  it  always  got  hooked.  It  certainly  did  so  this 
time,  and  Mr.  Adolphus,  passing  on  after  his  colloquy 
with  his  brother,  was  able  to  render  squire's  service, 
unhooking  it  as  bold  as  brass.  Whereupon  the  lady 
and  her  aunt  gushed  gratefully,  as  in  return  for 
life  saved.  Their  rescuer  passed  on,  feeling  in- 
ternally gratified,  and  that  he  had  shown  presence 
of  mind  at  a  crisis — was,  in  short,  a  Man  of  the 
World.  But  he  did  not  know  that  from  thencefor- 
ward he  was  entangled  in  a  certain  perverse  enchant- 
ment— a  sort  of  spell  that  constantly  impelled  him  to 
dally  with  the  delicate  position  he  was  so  conscious 
about.  He  must  needs  go  and  stick  himself  four 
seats  off  Mrs.  Aiken,  in  the  two-shilling  places,  the 
intervening  three  seats  being  vacant. 

Now,  if  only  lean  men,  operating  edgewise,  had 
attempted  to  pass  into  these  seats,  things  might 
have  gone  otherwise.  Fate  sent  a  lady  over  three 
feet  thick  all  the  way  down,  and  apparently  quite 
solid,  to  wedge  her  way  into  one  or  more  of  these 
seats.  Mr.  Adolphus  shrank,  for  all  he  was  worth, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  185 

but  it  was  a  trying  moment.  The  lady  was  just 
that  sort  the  Inquisition  once  employed  so  success- 
fully; one  with  spikes,  that  drew  blood  from  any- 
one that  got  agglutinated  with  her  costume.  She 
might,  however,  have  got  through  without  accident 
—you  never  can  tell ! — if  the  trial  had  been  carried 
out.  It  was  suspended  by  a  suggestion  from  Mrs. 
Aiken  that  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  should  come  a  little 
farther  along  and  make  room;  and  when  he  com- 
plied, to  the  extent  of  going  one  seat  nearer  to  her, 
a  second  suggestion  that  he  should  come  nearer  still, 
to  which  he  assented  with  trepidation.  Resistance 
was  useless.  A  galaxy  of  daughters  had  already 
filled  in  the  whole  row  behind  the  stout  lady,  and 
were  forcing  her  on  like  the  air-tight  piece  of  potato 
in  a  quill  popgun,  only  larger.  So  in  the  end  Mr. 
Adolphus  Groob  found  himself  wedged  securely  be- 
tween the  stout  lady  and  Mrs.  Euphemia  Aiken,  quite 
unable  to  speak  to  the  former,  for  though  they  had 
certainly  met — with  a  vengeance — they  had  never 
been  introduced  This  really  was  a  very  delicate 
position.  Mrs.  Aiken  might  at  least  have  said, 
"  You  know  Mrs.  Godfrey  Pybus,  I  think  ?  "  That 
was  the  stout  lady's  name.  Then  he  could  have 
avoided  talking  with  Mrs.  Aiken,  by  becoming 
absorbed  in  Mrs.  Pybus,  and  shouting  round  her 
to  her  nearest  daughters  beyond.  As  it  was,  he 
was  fairly  forced  to  make  careful  remarks  to  his 


186  A  LIKELY  STORY 

other  neighbour,  scrupulously  avoiding  allusion  to 
husbands,  wives,  quarrels,  studios,  Chelsea,  London, 
servant-girls,  picture-cleaning  .  .  .  this  is  only  a 
handful  at  random  of  the  things  it  would  never  do 
to  mention  in  such  delicate  circumstances.  He  held 
his  tongue  discreetly  about  every  one  of  these  in 
turn,  and  talked  of  little  but  the  weather. 

Do  not  run  away  with  the  idea  that  anything 
interesting  or  exciting  grew  out  of  this  chance 
meeting,  in  the  story.  The  introduction  of  it,  at 
such  length,  is  only  warranted  by  the  fact  that, 
without  its  details,  it  would  have  absolutely  no 
relevance  at  all.  Whatever  it  has  will,  we  hope,  be 
made  clear  later. 

A  little  conversation  passed  between  the  two,  but 
it  was  of  no  more  importance  than  the  sample  which 
follows. 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  lecture  is  about  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Aiken. 

"  Couldn't  say,"  was  the  reply.  "  Never  know 
what  lectures  are  about!  I'm  an  Artist,  don't  you 
know!  My  brother  Bob  could  tell  you.  He's  a 
scientific  chap — knows  about  Telephones  and  things 
that  go  round  and  burst." 

"  Is  there  anything  that  goes  round  and  bursts 
in  the  lecture,  I  wonder  ?  'J 

"  Shouldn't  be  much  surprised.  Here's  the  Sylla- 
bub— I  mean  Syllabus."  Mr.  Adolphus  handed  his 


A  LIKELY  STORY  187 

information  to  his  neighbour.  Caution  made  him  un- 
communicative. Naturally,  he  was  of  a  more  talka- 
tive disposition. 

Mrs.  Aiken  studied  the  heads  of  the  lecture. 
"  What  is  meant,  I  wonder,  by  the  Radio- Activity 
of  Space  ?  "  said  she.  Now  in  asking  this  question 
she  was  deferring  to  the  widespread  idea  that  Man 
understands  Science,  and  can  tell  Woman  all  about 
it.  He  doesn't,  and  can't. 

Observe,  please,  that  Mr.  Groob  was  under  a 
mixed  influence.  He  happened  to  have  been  rather 
disgusted  because  Miss  Jessica  Bax,  instead  of 
appreciating  his  self-sacrifice  in  riding  outside  and 
wrapping  up,  had  shown  a  marked  preference  for 
a  flirtation  with  his  brother.  Slightly  miffed  by  this, 
he  had  become  the  victim  of  a  mysterious  spell  or 
fascination  connected  with  that  hook-and-eye  acci- 
dent, which  had  caused  him — not  to  sit  down  beside 
its  victim;  he  never  would  have  presumed  to  do 
that — but  to  hover  near  her,  and  in  doing  this  to  be 
remorselessly  forced  into  her  pocket  by  thev  dead 
weight  of  Mrs.  Godfrey  Pybus.  Things  being  so, 
what  could  he  do  but  rejoice  at  the  Radio-Activity 
of  Space,  as  a  topic  surely  removed  from  any  wives 
that  had  bolted  from  any  husbands  ?  What  could  be 
safer  ?  as  a  resource  against  embarrassing  reference  to 
the  painful  status  quo  ? 

He   accepted   the  position   of  instructor   his-  sex 


188  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

conferred  on  him.  "  It's  got  somethin'  to  do  with 
Four  Dimensions/'  he  said.  "  Can't  say  I've  gone 
much  into  the  subject  myself,  but  I've  talked  to  a 
very  intelligent  feller  about  it.  Did  you  ever  see 
any  Radium  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  No.  My  husband  saw  some,  though.  He 
looked  through  a  hole." 

"  That's  it.  It  destroys  your  eyesight,  I  believe, 
and  loses  decimal  point  something  of  its  volume  in 
a  hundred  thousand  years.  There  is  no  doubt  we 
are  on  the  brink  of  great  discoveries." 

"  How  very  interesting !  I  wish  the  lecturer 
would  begin.  Oh — here  he  is !  " 

"  Very  bald  feller !  He  ought  to  use  petrol.  You 
have  to  rub  it  in  and  keep  out  of  the  way  of  artificial 
light.  This  chap's  first  cousin  lost  the  use  of  both 
legs  through  investigatin'.  It  was  X  rays,  I  believe. 
You  may  depend  on  it  we've  got  a  deal  to  learn." 
And  so  on. 

Upon  the  honour  of  the  narrative  this  sample  is 
a  fair  one  of  what  passed  between  this  lady  and 
gentleman  on  this  occasion.  There  was  more,  but 
it  was  exactly  the  same  sort. 

In  due  course  the  lecture  was  begun  and  ended; 
then  the  discussion  followed,  and  Mrs.  Godfrey 
Pybus  and  her  six  daughters  didn't  stop  to  hear 
Miss  Volumnia  Bax's  analysis  and  refutation,  but 
went  away  in  the  middle  and  made  a  noise  on 


A  LIKELY  STORY  189 

purpose.     It  was  just  like  them  and  they  were  per- 
fectly odious  people. 

It  is  most  extraordinary  how  Time  will  slip  away 
when  the  catching  hold  of  his  forelock  depends  on 
ourselves.  Each  morning  may  bring  that  forelock 
again  within  reach,  and  each  morning  the  same 
apathy  that  made  us  yesterday  too  languid  to  stretch 
out  a  hand  and  grip  the  old  scamp  and  employ  him 
for  our  own  advantage  keeps  us  in  the  same  stupid 
abeyance,  and  we  lose  the  chance  for  another 
twenty-four  hours.  Every  postponement  makes 
a  new  precedent,  and  every  new  precedent  stiffens 
the  back  of  inaction. 

It  was  so  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reginald  Aiken. 
ISTot  a  morning  passed  without  an  unfulfilled  im- 
pulse on  either  part  to  cross  the  gulf  between  them, 
and  terminate  their  idiotic  separation,  bridged  by 
correspondence  which  really  did  more  harm  than 
good.  There  is  one  precept  which  it  is  quite  im- 
possible for  the  human  race  to  observe  too  closely — 
Never  write  letters!  If  only  those  words  could 
replace  Little  Liver  Pills  and  so  forth  on  those 
atrocities  that  flank  the  railways  and  hide  the 
planet,  its  inhabitants  would  be  the  gainers.  Mr. 
Reginald  had  an  extraordinary  faculty  for  undoing 
in  a  postscript  any  little  concession  he  had  made  at 
the  outset,  and  Mrs.  Euphemia,  for  her  part,  was 


190  A  LIKELY  STORY 

becoming  quite  a  proficient  in  sarcasm — three-line 
whips  of  scorpions  describes  her  style,  or  the  style 
she  aimed  at.  For  a  superficial  literary  education 
did  not  help  her  up  to  its  perfection. 

"Very  good,  Mrs.  Hay!  " — thus,  on  receipt  of  a 
letter,  would  run  her  husband's  commentary, 
embodying  transposed  quotation  in  its  text,  "  '  Pray 
go  my  own  way ' :  that's  it,  is  it  ?  '  On  no  account 
give  the  slightest  consideration  underlined  to  the 
wishes  of  your  underlined  wife.'  Oh,  very  well — 
I  won't.  '  If  my  Conscience  with  a  big  C  didn't 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  pleadings  of  my  Better  Self 
with  a  big  B  and  a  big  S  ' — what's  all  this  ?  can't 
read  it — oh !  I  see — yes,  at  least  I  see  what  it  comes 
to ! — I  should  come  to  my  sences — spelt  wrong — 
and  overcome  the  ridiculous  false  pride  that  stands 
between  me  and  something  or  other  underlined— 
h'm !  h'm ! — (  consult  my  own  dignity  ' — h'm, 
h'm — something's  something  else  I  can't  make  out 
in  the  truest  sence  of  the  word,  underlined.  I 
dare  say.  I  know  what  all  this  rot  comes  to  in  the 
end.  I'm  to  go  and  ask  forgiveness  and  show  con- 
trition, and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  was  expected  to 
beg  Aunt  Priscilla's  pardon.  And  be  taken  to 
Church  as  like  as  not.  I  say,  Stumpy,  that  would 
be  rather  jolly,  wouldn't  it?  Fancy  the  Wicked 
Man  turnething  away  from  his  Wickedness  and 
Aunt  Priscilla  taking  care  visibly  not  to  look  at 


A  LIKELY  STORY  191 

your  humble  servant,  so  as  not  to  hurt  his  feelings !  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Crocky," — thus  Mr.  Hughes, 
on  the  occasion  the  above  is  chosen  from,  some  time 
in  ISTovember — "  I  tell  you  what :  if  I  was  you,  I 
shouldn't  be  an  Ass.  Just  you  mozey  off  to  Atha- 
basca Villa  and  make  it  up.  I  believe  Mrs.  Gapp's 
right." 

"  That  old  sot  been  talking  ?  Parples  was  the 
best  of  the  two.  I'll  have  Parples  back."  For 
Mrs.  Gapp  had  taken  Mrs.  Parples'  place,  under 
pretence  of  greater  accomplishments  and  better 
training. 

"  At  my  invitation,  Mr.  Aiken,"  said  Mr.  Hughes 
with  some  show  of  dignity — "  at  my  invita- 
tion, observe ! — Mrs.  Gapp,  who  has  buried  three 
husbands  and  really  ought  to  know  a  good  deal 
about  connubiosity — conjugosity — what  the  dooce  is 
the  word?  ..." 

"  Well — married  life,  anyhow !  "What  did  old 
boozey  say  ?  " 

"  She  had  great  faith  in  a  spirit  of  mutual  con- 
ciliation. That  is  not  precisely  the  way  she  put  it. 
Her  exact  expression  was  '  A  good  'ug's  the  thing, 
Mr.  Stumpy'.  .  .  .  Yes — that  is  what  Mrs.  Gapp 
calls  me,  misled  by  your  example.  ...  I  must 
say  I  think  the  course  she  indicated  has  much  to  rec- 
ommend it." 

Mr.  Aiken  looked  moody,  and  did  not  reply  at 


192  A  LIKELY  STORY 

once.  Then  he  said :  "  That's  all  very  fine,  Stump, 
my  boy.  But — Sairah !  Sairah's  the  point.  Now, 
mind  you,  I'm  not  suggestin'  anythin'.  But  just 
you  look  at  it  this  way.  There  was  a  rather  nice 
lookin'  gyairl,  with  a  bird's  wing  in  her  hat,  came  for 
the  place,  and  Euphemia  wouldn't  hear  of  her,  don't 
you  know !  Suppose  it  had  been  her ! — puts  the  mat- 
ter on  a  more  human  footin',  shouldn't  you  say  ?  " 

Mr.  Hughes  reflected,  and  spoke  as  one  whose 
reflections  had  borne  fruit.  "  Not  being  a  married 
beggar  myself,  I  can't  say.  Speaking  as  single  cuss, 
my  recommendation  to  you  would  be — speaking 
broadly — not  to  make  an  Ass  of  yourself.  See  what 
I'm  driving  at  ?  " 

"  That  means,"  said  Mr.  Aiken,  "  that  you  con- 
sider I  ought  to  go  and  beg  Euphemia's  gracious 
pardon,  and  take  the  blame  of  the  whole  how-do- 
you-do  on  my  own  shoulders,  and  as  like  as  not 
have  to  go  to  Church  with  Aunt  Priscilla.  Well — 
I  wont,  and  there's  an  end  of  it !  " 

And  Mr.  Aiken  didn't,  and  prolonged  his  uncom- 
fortable circumstances  quite  to  the  end  of  the  year. 
But  it  is  only  right  to  say  that  his  wife  contributed 
all  her  share  to  their  extension  and  consolidation. 
In  fact,  if  this  story  has  achieved  the  wish  of  its 
compiler,  ourself,  it  should  be  clear  to  its  reader  that 
Mr.  Reginald  and  Mrs.  Euphemia  Aiken  were  pre- 
cisely six  of  the  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  UPWELL  FAMILY  IN  LONDON.  HOW  MADELINE  PBOMISED 
NOT  TO  GET  MIXED  UP.  A  NICE  SUBUBBAN  BOY,  WITH  A 
TWO-POWER  STANDARD.  NO  JACK  NOW !  THE  SILVER  TEA- 
POT. MISS  PBISCILLA'S  EXTRACTION.  IMPERIALISM.  HOR- 
ACE WALPOLE  AND  JOHN  BUNYAN.  THE  TAPLEYS.  HOW  AN 
ITEM  IN  THE  "  TELEGRAPH  "  UPSET  MADELINE.  HOW  SHE 
FAILED  IN  HER  MISSION,  BUT  LEFT  A  PHOTOGRAPH  BEHIND 
HER.  THE  LATE  LADY  BETTY  DUSTERS'S  CHIN.  HOW  MRS. 
AIKEN  STAYED  DOWNSTAIRS  AND  WENT  TO  SLEEP  IN  AN 
ARM-CHAIR,  AND  OF  A  CURIOUS  EXPERIENCE  SHE  HAD.  HOW 
SHE  BELATED  THE  SAME  TO  HER  COUSIN  VOLUMNIA.  OF 
ICILIA  CIARANFI  AND  DONNINA  MAGLIABECCHI,  AND  OF  THE 
DUST.  THE  PSYCHOMORPHIC  REPORT.  HOW  MISS  VOLUMNIA 
DID  NOT  LOSE  HER  TRAIN 

"  Why  do  you  want  the  carriage,  darling  ?  " 

"  To  call  on  a  lady  somewhere  near  Richmond,  or 
Combe,  I  think  it  is." 

"  Won't  it  do  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Not  so  well  as  to-day." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  must  have  it,  darling." 

"  Not  if  you  want  it,  Mumsey !  "  The  speaker 
got  the  head  of  the  person  she  addressed  in  Chancery, 
to  kiss  it,  using  the  chair-back  of  the  latter  as  a 
fulcrum. 

Lady  Upwell,  the  victim  of  this  manoeuvre,  said, 
"  Take  care,  Mad  dear ;  you'll  spoil  my  ruche  and 
put  your  eyes  out."  So  her  daughter  released  her, 

193 


194  A  LIKELY  STORY 

and  sat  at  her  feet.  She  had  on  her  tussore  in  saxe- 
1)1  ue,  trimmed  with  guipure  lace,  and  was  as  pretty 
as  ever,  and  as  sad. 

"  Who  is  it  you  want  to  go  and  see,  darling  ? " 
said  her  ladyship. 

"  That  Mrs.  Aiken,"  said  Madeline. 

"  Oh,"  said  her  mother,  "  but  isn't  she  rather  ? " 
But  Madeline  shook  her  head,  with  her  eyes  very 
wide  open,  and  kept  on  shaking  it  all  the  while  as 
she  replied,  "  Oh  no,  she's  not  rather  at  all.  It  was 
all  her  husband."  Whereupon  her  mother  said, 
"  Oh — it  was  her  husband,  was  it  ?  "  and  put  back 
a  loose  forehead-lock  of  hair  that  was  getting  in 
her  daughter's  eyes. 

This  wasn't  at  Surley  Stakes.  The  family  had 
come  up  to  Eaton  Place  for  a  week  or  ten  days. 
And  these  ladies  were  sitting  in  a  small  jury  drawing- 
room  that  did  duty  on  flying  visits.  The  real 
drawing-room  was  all  packed  up,  and  must  have 
been  rather  savage  when  the  family  came  to  town, 
yet  left  it  in  statu  quo.  And  very  savage  indeed 
with  Madeline,  who  was  begging  to  be  allowed  to 
stop  in  the  country  and  not  come  to  town  this 
season  at  all.  Indeed,  she  would  have  had  her  way, 
had  not  her  father  said  that  come  she  must,  to  see 
the  new  pair  of  carriage-horses  he  was  thinking  of 
purchasing,  whose  owner  was  willing  to  lend  them 
for  a  few  days  on  trial,  but  only  on  condition  that 


A  LIKELY  STORY  195 

they  should  not  be  taken  away  from  London.  So 
the  family  coachman  had  accompanied  the  family, 
in  a  certain  sense  clandestinely.  It  is  needless  to 
tell  anyone  who  knows  that  of  course  these  ladies 
were  themselves  only  theoretically  in  town,  with  those 
shutters  all  up. 

Madeline  helped  to  get  the  lock  of  hair  hack,  re- 
marking, "  It  always  does,"  without  an  antecedent. 
It  was  a  pity  there  was  no  one  there — mothers 
don't  count — to  see  how  pretty  her  wrist  looked, 
with  the  blue  veins  in  it,  as  she  did  so.  She  con- 
tinued talking  about  that  Mrs.  Aiken,  but  semi- 
apologetically,  as  if  she  felt  abnormal  in  wanting 
to  see  that  Mrs.  Aiken. 

Her  mother  attempted  to  rationalize  and  formu- 
late her  daughter's  position.  "  I  can't  understand, 
dear  child,"  she  said.  "  You  only  saw  this  lady  that 
one  time,  and  only  for  a  few  minutes  then.  What 
mpkes  you  want  to  see  her  again  ?  She  doesn't 
seem  to  have  produced  a — a  favourable  impression 
exactly." 

"  N-n-not  very !  "  is  the  reply ;  the  prolonged  initial 
conveying  the  speaker's  hesitation  to  condemn. 
"  But  it  isn't  that." 

"What  isn't  it,  child?" 

"  What  she's  like.  It's  because  I  went  there  with 
Jack." 

"  I  see,  dear."     But  it  isn't  so  very  clear  that  her 


196  A  LIKELY  STORY 

ladyship  does  see.  For  she  adds : — "  I  quite  under- 
stand. Of  course.  Yes !  "  in  a  tone  which  seems 
to  invite  further  explanation. 

Her  daughter  at  least  puts  this  interpretation  on 
it.  "  Don't  you  see,  Mumsey  dear  ? "  she  says. 
"  It's  because  I  recollect  me  and  Jack,  and  her 
and  her  husband,  all  talking  together  in  that  muddle 
of  a  Studio,  and  the  lay-figure  with  its  head  on 
backwards.  They  seem  to  come  into  it  somehow." 
The  further  particulars  are  slight,  one  would  say, 
but  they  carry  conviction,  for  her  mother  says,  "  I 
understand  that,  but  can  you  do  any  good  ?  "  as  if 
the  substratum  of  a  debatable  point  might  be  con- 
sidered settled.  Madeline  goes  on,  encouraged  to 
confidence,  "  I  think  perhaps.  Because  those  Baxes 
we  met  ..." 

"  Those  whats?  "  her  ladyship  interrupts;  adding, 
however,  "  Oh,  I  see — it's  a  name !  Go  on." 

"  A  grim  big  one  and  a  little  rather  jolly  one. 
That  evening  at  Lady  Presteign's.  The  grim  big 
one  talked  about  it  to  me  in  a  corner,  because  her 
sister's  too  young  to  know  about  such  things — only 
she's  nearly  my  age,  and  I  don't  see  why — and  told 
me  she  believed  it  was  a  perfectly  ridiculous  quarrel 
about  a  horrible  maidservant,  who  was  quite  out 
of  the  question.  And  of  course  this  Miss  Bax  doesn't 
know  what  we  know." 

"  My  darling  Madeline !  "     A  large  amused  ma- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  197 

ternal  smile  irradiates  the  speaker.  "Know!  What 
a  funny  child  you  are !  " 

"  Well,  Mumsey,  don't  we  know,  or  as  good  as 
know  ?  Do  you  really  think  Uncle  Christopher  made 
that  all  up  ?  /  don't." 

"  It  was  the  action  of  his  brain,  my  dear,  not  his 
own  doing  at  all!  Let  me  see — what's  it  called? — 
something  ending  in  ism." 

"  Hypnotism  ? " 

"  No !     Oh  dear,  I  shall  remember  directly.  ..." 

"  Mesmerism  ?  " 

"  No,  no ! — do  be  quiet  and  let  me  think.   ..." 

"  Vegetarianism  ? " 

"  You  silly  girl !  I  had  just  got  it,  and  you  put 
it  out  of  my  head  .  .  .  There!  .  .  .  Stop! 
.  .  .  No!  .  .  .  Yes — I've  got  it.  Unconscious 
Cerebration!  How  on  earth  did  I  manage  to  forget 
that  ?  Unconscious  Cerebration,  of  course !  " 

"  But  it  doesn't  end  in  ism.    It  ends  in  ation." 

"  Never  mind,  child !  Anyhow,  I  have  recollected 
it,  and  it's  a  thing  one  ought  to  be  able  to  say. 
Don't  let's  forget  it  again."  To  Lady  Upwell  this 
world  was  a  theatre,  and  the  name  of  the  piece  was 
Society.  She  was  always  on  the  sweetest  terms 
with  the  Management,  and  her  benevolence  to  the 
worn-out  and  broken-down  actors  was  heartfelt. 
Still,  one  had  to  talk  one's  part,  and  dress  it.  "  Un- 
conscious Cerebration "  was  useful  gag.  "  But," 


198  A  LIKELY  STORY 

said  she,  returning  to  the  main  point,  "  I  don't  see 
what  you  can  do,  child." 

"  No  more  do  I,  Mumsey  dear.  But  I  may  be 
able  to  do  something  for  all  that.  I  should  like  to 
try,  anyhow.  I'm  sure  the  picture  was  right. 
Besides,  see  what  that  Miss  Bax  said.  You  may 
say  what  you  like,  but  she  is  Mrs.  Aiken's  first 
cousin,  after  all!  " 

"  No  doubt  she's  right,  dear !  And  no  doubt  the 
picture's  right."  Her  ladyship  retires  with  the 
dignity  of  one  withdrawing  herself  from  mundane 
matters,  Olympuswards.  But  one  can  never  touch 
pitch  and  not  be  defiled.  Some  has  clung  to  her, 
for  she  adds,  absently,  "  I  wonder  where  Thyrza 
Presteign  picks  up  all  these  odd  people."  In  the 
end  she  forsakes  speculation  to  say,  "  Of  course 
have  the  carriage,  darling;  I  don't  see  that  any 
harm  can  come  of  it.  Only  don't  get  mixed 
up." 

"  I  won't  get  mixed  up,"  said  Miss  Upwell  con- 
fidently, and  kisses  her  mother  on  both  sides,  for 
granting  the  carriage  to  go  on  such  a  crazy  quest. 
She  for  the  tenth  of  a  second  associates  the  two 
kisses  with  the  beautiful  pair  of  greys  that  draw  it. 
She  loves  horses  very  much,  and  gives  them  too 
much  sugar.  If  any  tongue's  tip  is  ready  with  a 
denial  of  the  possibility  of  such  an  impression  as 
this,  it  only  shows  that  the  tongue's  owner  has  not 


A  LIKELY  STORY  199 

tad  a  similar  experience.     The  kisses  were  cash  down 
for  each  horse — does  that  make  it  clearer  \ 

Anyhow,  the  greys'  eight  hoofs  rang  sweetly  next 
day  on  a  frosty  road,  going  south-westwards,  as 
soon  as  they  left  the  traffic — that  road-spoiler — far 
enough  behind.  The  sun  had  taken  a  mean  ad- 
vantage of  its  being  such  a  glorious  day,  to  get  at 
nice  clean  frozen  corners  and  make  a  nasty  mess. 
But  there  were  many  havens  of  security  still  where 
what  was  blown  snow-dust  in  the  early  morning  might 
still  have  a  little  peace  and  quiet,  and  wait  with  resig- 
nation for  inevitable  thaw. 

Such  a  one  was — or  had  been — on  a  low  window^ 
sill  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  behind  the  horse-trough 
which  the  steaming  greys  suggested  they  should 
empty,  but  were  only  allowed  to  sample.  Had 
been,  because  of  a  boy.  A  boy  is  a  reason  for  so 
many  things  in  this  world.  This  one,  a  very  nice 
specimen,  coming,  well-informed,  from  a  Gothic 
school  near  by,  was  showing  how  indifferent  chubbi- 
ness  can  be  to  chill  February,  by  using  up  the  snow 
on  this  window-sill  in  the  manufacture  of  two  snow- 
balls, of  which  one  was  complete.  His  was  a  Two 
Power  Standard,  evidently. 

"  Ask  that  little  boy  where  this  place  is,"  says 
Miss  Upwell,  from  inside  furs ;  because  the  carriage- 
lid  is  set  back  by  request,  and  the  rider  is  convinced 


200  A  LIKELY  STORY 

of  cold,  but  won't  give  in  on  principle.  "  He's  a 
native,  and  ought  to  know.  Ask  him,  James." 

"  Where's  Athabasca  Villa,  young  un  ?  .  .  . 
Don't  believe  he  knows,  Miss." 

"  Where's  Athabasca  Villa,  little  man  ?  .  .  . 
Don't  you  know?  Well — where  does  Miss  Priscilla 
Bax  live  ?  " 

"  Oh — -I  know  she!  Over  yarnder."  A  vigorous 
illumination  speaks  to  the  force  of  Miss  Priscilla 
Bax's  identity.  "  Over  yonder  "  is,  however,  vague : 
and  you  may  have  eyes  like  sloes,  and  crisp  curly 
brown  hair,  and  ruddy  cheeks,  and  yet  have  very 
small  powers  of  indicating  complex  routes  past 
Daddy's — not  otherwise  described — and  round  to  the 
left,  and  along  to  the  right,  and  by  Farmer  Phipps's 
barn,  and  so  on.  But  this  is  a  young  gentleman 
of  resource,  and  he  has  a  suggestion  ready :  "  You  let 
I  royd  up  behind,  and  I'll  poyunt  out  where  to  drive." 
The  lady  accedes  to  this  proposal,  though  James  is 
evidently  uneasy  lest  a  precedent  should  be  estab- 
lished. "  Let  him  ride  behind — he  won't  do  any 

harm "  says  Madeline,  between  whom  and  this 

youth  a  bond  of  sympathy  forges  itself  unexpectedly. 
It  might  have  been  more  judicious  to  deprive  him  of 
ammunition. 

For  the  Two  Power  Standard,  in  his  case,  seemed 
to  involve  a  Policy  of  Aggression.  His  first  snow- 
ball was  aimed  too  low;  and  though  it  struck  its 


A  LIKELY  STORY  201 

object,  the  Incumbent  of  the  Parish,  that  gentleman 
only  laughed.  The  second  landed  neatly  under  the 
back-hair  of  a  stout  lady,  and  probably  went  down 
her  neck  behind,  as  her  indignation  found  voice  pro- 
portionate to  such  a  result.  Miss  Upwell — to  her 
shame  be  it  spoken — pretended  not  to  see  or  hear; 
refusing,  Gallio-like,  to  listen — but  in  this  case  to 
Gentiles — and  saying  to  James,  "  Please  don't  stop, 
James — go  on  quick." 

The  infant  was,  however,  as  good  as  his  under- 
taking, conducting  the  carriage  intelligently  to 
Athabasca  Villa,  and  taking  an  unfair  advantage 
of  permission  to  pull  its  bell;  he  was,  in  fact,  de- 
tached from  it  with  some  difficulty.  He  seemed  sur- 
prised and  pleased  at  the  receipt  of  a  douceur,  and 
danced. 

"  Oh  dear !  "  said  poor  Madeline  to  herself,  as  she 
heard  him  die  away,  with  some  friends  he  met,  in 
the  distance.  "  How  Jack  would  have  liked  that 
boy !  "  There  was  to  be  no  Jack,  it  seemed,  now ! 

Mrs.  Aiken,  at  one  of  the  bays  that  flanked  the 
doorway  of  Athabasca  Villa,  looked  out  upon  the 
top  and  bottom  half  of  a  sun  up  to  his  middle  in  a 
chill  purple  mist,  and  waited  for  tea.  Tea  waited 
to  be  made,  like  Eve  when  she  was  a  rib.  But  with 
a  confidence  based  on  precedent;  for  Tea  was  made 
every  day  at  the  same  time,  which  Eve  wasn't. 


202  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Besides,  Miss  Priscilla  Bax  made  tea,  and  wouldn^t 
let  anyone  else  make  it.  Not  that  there  appears  to 
be  any  suggestion  in  the  story  of  Eve  that  there  was 
ever  any  talk  of  underletting  the  job. 

Miss  Priscilla  Bax  had  a  cap  out  of  last  century, 
about  half-way,  and  the  cap  had  ribbons  which  had 
to  be  kept  entirely  out  of  the  tea.  These  ribbons 
had  no  function  or  practical  object,  though  an 
imaginative  mind  might  have  ascribed  to  them  that, 
being  alike  on  both  sides,  they  helped  the  sense  of 
equilibrium  necessary  to  safe  conduct  of  the  un- 
made tea  from  a  casket  on  four  gouty  feet,  whose 
lid  wouldn't  keep  up,  to  a  black  Rockingham  teapot, 
which  did  for  when  there  was  no  one. 

Only,  this  time  there  was  someone — some  car- 
riage one — and  his,  her,  or  its  approach  caused  Mrs. 
Aiken  to  exclaim,  "  Good  gracious,  Aunty,  I'm 
afraid  it's  people !  " 

Miss  Priscilla  was  watching  the  tap  of  the  urn  run 
— her  phrase,  not  ours.  "  How  many  ?  "  said  she. 
Then  dialogue  worked  out  as  follows : 

"  I  think  I  see  who  it  is." 

"  How  many  ?  " 

"  Only  one.  I  fancy  it's  that  Miss  What's-her- 
name.  I  wish  it  wasn't.  It's  too  late  to  say  not 
at  home.  She's  seen  me  at  the  window.  But  you'll 
have  to  put  in  another  heaped-up  spoonful.  When- 
ever will  they  stop  ringing  that  bell  ?  " 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  203 

At  this  point  presumably  the  mercenary  was 
strangled  off  it,  and  rewarded,  for  the  lady  added, 
"  Yes,  it's  her.  She's  talking  to  a  boy.  What  on 
earth  has  brought  her  here?  I  shall  go." 

"  You  can't.  You've  been  seen.  Don't  be  a  fool. 
Who  do  you  mean  by  l  her  '  ?  " 

"  Oh — you  know !  Miss  Upsley  Pupsley  of  Curly 
something.  That  place  in  Worcestershire  the  pic- 
ture was  to  go  to.  You  know !  They've  a  house  in 
Eaton  Square." 

"  Then  we  must  have  the  silver  teapot,  and  I 
shall  have  to  make  fresh  tea."  The  house  in  Eaton 
Square  settled  that.  A  hurried  aside  caused  the 
appearance  of  the  silver  teapot  in  all  its  glory  and 
a  new  ebullition,  over  the  lamp,  of  a  fresh  kettle  of 
water  at  par. 

Thereupon  Miss  Upwell  found  herself  within 
reach — academically  speaking — of  talking  with  this 
Mrs.  Aiken  of  that  lady's  private  domestic  dis- 
sensions. But,  oh,  the  impossibility  of  it !  Madeline 
felt  it  now,  too  late.  Even  getting  to  speak  of  the 
subject  at  all  seemed  hopeless.  And  in  another 
moment  she  became  horribly  aware  that  she  was 
inexplicable — couldn't  account  for  her  visit  at  all. 
Still,  she  had  too  much  grit  in  her  to  dream  of  giving 
in.  And  then,  look  at  the  motive !  Besides,  she 
had  in  her  heart  a  strong  suspicion  that  she  was  a 
beauty,  and  that  that  was  why  people  always  gave 


204  A  LIKELY  STORY 

way  to  her.  Her  beauty  was  of  no  use,  now  that 
Jack  was  gone.  Nothing  being  of  any  use  to  her, 
now,  at  least  let  it  help  her  to  do  a  good  turn  to  a 
fellow- woman  in  tribulation.  If  this  picture-ghost 
— so  she  said  to  herself — had  told  this  Mrs.  Aiken 
where  Jack  was,  would  she  not  come  and  tell,  on 
the  chance  ?  Of  course  she  would !  Courage ! 

The  most  terrifying  obstacle  in  her  path  was 
Aunt  Priscilla.  If  this  lady  had  been  the  in- 
offensive tabby  Madeline's  wish  had  been  father  to 
her  thought  of,  she  could  have  been  treated  as  a 
negligible  factor.  But  what  is  to  be  done  when 
your  Aunt,  living  under  an  impression  that  in  early 
life  she  mixed  in  circles,  recognizes  your  distin- 
guished young  friend  as  having  emerged  from  a  circle. 
This  way  of  putting  the  case  transfers  the  embarrass- 
ment from  Miss  TJpwell  to  Mrs.  Aiken.  Probably 
that  lady  felt  it,  and  wished  Aunt  Priscilla  wouldn't 
go  on  so.  The  fact  is  she  was  getting  curious  to  know 
the  reason  of  her  visitor's  unexpected  appearance. 
There  must  be  some  reason. 

It  lost  its  opportunity  of  being  divulged  at  the 
outset.  The  visitor's  parade  of  the  utter  indefensi- 
bility of  her  intrusion,  and  her  fib — for  a  fib  it  was 
in  the  spirit,  however  true  in  the  letter — that  she 
"  was  in  the  neighbourhood "  worked  on  the 
imagination,  and  made  the  position  plausible.  Mrs. 
Aiken  dropped  all  attempts  to  look  amiably  sur- 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  205 

prised,  as  one  courteously  awaiting  a  revelation, 
and  candidly  admitted  an  extremely  clear  recollec- 
tion of  Miss  Upwell's  visit  to  the  Studio.  Of  course 
she  was  delighted  to  see  her,  on  any  terms.  But 
the  reason  of  her  coming  could  get  no  chance  of  a 
hearing,  when  the  first  flush  of  conversation  had  once 
failed  to  give  it  an  opening.  Miss  Priscilla's  extrac- 
tion had  to  be  reckoned  with. 

If  only  that  appalling  old  lady  had  not  been  there, 
or  would  even  have  been  content  to  play  second 
fiddle!  But  as  soon  as  she  heard  the  name  of  the 
village  of  Grewceham  in  Worcestershire  mentioned 
as  the  nearest  township  to  Surley  Stakes,  she 
identified  that  county  as  the  cradle  of  her  race, 
saying,  "  WE  came  from  Sampford  Plantagenet,  I 
believe,"  in  a  tone  suggestive- of  remote  epochs,  and 
considerable  yeomen  farmers,  at  least,  vanishing  into 
the  mists  of  antiquity.  "  But  my  mother's  family," 
she  added,  "  were  all  Brocks,  of  Sampford  Pag- 
nell." 

Madeline,  anxious  to  oblige  as  she  was,  could  go 
no  farther  than  to  believe,  as  an  abstract  truth, 
that  there  were  still  Brocks  in  Sampford  Pagnell, 
speaking  of  them  rather  as  if  they  ran  away  when 
seen,  but  might  be  heard  occasionally,  like  bitterns. 
She  could  not  do  any  Baxes  at  Sampford  Plan- 
tagenet. However,  her  father  would  know  the  name 
Bax,  and  his  heraldic  sympathies  would  be  stirred 


206  A  LIKELY  STORY 

by  it  like  the  war-horse  in  Job  at  the  sound  of 
battle.  This  anticipation  was  founded  solely  on  his 
daughter's  desire  to  fill  out  the  order  for  Baxes. 

Miss  Priscilla  always  preferred  to  pour  the  tea 
herself,  not  without  a  certain  Imperial  suggestion 
in  the  preference.  Vespasian  would  have  insisted 
on  pouring  out  the  tea,  under  like  circumstances. 

But  the  tea,  when  poured,  brought  with  it  no  clue 
to  the  cause  of  Miss  TJpwell's  visit.  It  had  furnished 
a  certain  amount  of  relief,  during  its  negotiation, 
by  postponing  discussion  of  the  point,  and  by  the 
claim  it  made  for  a  chapter  to  itself.  For  a  short 
chapter  of  your  life-story  begins  when  you  get  your 
tea,  and  ends  when  you've  done  your  tea.  When 
Madeline  had  ceased  to  be  able  to  pretend  that  this 
chapter  had  not  ended,  her  suspended  sense  of  in- 
comprehensibility cropped  up  again,  and  she  grew 
painfully  aware  that  her  hostesses  would  soon  begin 
waiting  visibly  for  enlightenment,  which  she  was  no 
nearer  being  able  to  give  than  at  first.  How  could 
she  have  guessed  it  would  be  so  difficult?  She  was 
even  conscious  of  gratitude  to  Miss  Priscilla  for  her 
persistency  in  Atavism,  and  at  heart  hoped  that  the 
good  lady  would  not  stop  just  yet. 

No  fear  of  that !  The  Brocks  were  not  nearly 
over,  and  they  had  to  be  disposed  of  before  the 
Baxes  could  be  taken  in  hand.  Their  exponent 
picked  them  up  where  she  had  dropped  them.  "  My 


A  LIKELY  STORY  207 

Mother's  family,"  she  resumed,  "  were  well  known 
during  the  Middle  Ages.  There  were  Brocks  in 
Sampford  Pagnell  as  early  as  fourteen  hundred  and 
four.  They  are  even  said  to  have  been  connected 
with  John  of  Gaunt.  Unhappily  all  the  family 
documents,  including  an  autograph  letter  of  Alice 
Piers  to  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  were  destroyed 
in  the  Great  Fire  of  London."  On  lines  like  these, 
as  we  all  know,  a  topic  may  be  pursued  for  a  very 
long  time  without  the  pursuer's  hobby  breaking  down. 
It  went  on  long  enough  in  this  case  for  Madeline 
to  wish  she  could  get  a  chance  of  utilizing  some 
courage  she  had  been  slowly  mustering  during  the 
chase.  This  being  hardly  mature  yet,  she  took  an- 
other cup  of  tea,  thank  you!  and  sat  on,  supplying 
little  notes  of  exclamation  and  pleased  surprise  when- 
ever the  manner  of  the  narrator  seemed  to  call  for 
them. 

"  It  seems  only  the  other  day,"  Aunt  Priscilla 
continued,  with  her  eyes  half-closed  to  express 
memory  at  work  upon  the  past,  "  that  I  was  taken 
as  a  little  girl  of  six,  to  see  my  great-grandmother, 
then  in  her  hundredth  year.  She  was  a  friend  of 
Horace  Walpole.  Her  mother  could  remember  John 
Bunyan." 

"  Is  it  possible !  "  said  Madeline,  very  shaky  about 
dates,  but  ready  with  any  amount  of  wonderment. 
She  added  idiotically,  "  Of  course  my  father  must 


208  A  LIKELY  STORY 

have  known  all  your  people,  quite  well."  Which 
did  not  follow  from  the  apparent  premisses. 

Mrs.  Aiken  muttered  in  a  warning  voice,  for  her 
visitor's  ear  only,  "  When  Aunt  gets  on  her  grand- 
mother she  never  gets  off.  You'll  see !  "  She  took 
advantage  of  the  old  lady's  deafness  to  keep  up  a 
running  comment. 

Miss  Priscilla  then  approached  a  subject  which 
required  to  be  handled  with  the  extremest  delicacy. 
"  I  think,  Euphemia,"  she  said,  "  that  after  so  long  a 
time  there  can  be  no  objection  .  .  .  You  know 
what  I  am  referring  to  ?  " 

"  Objection  ? — why  should  there  be  ?  Oh  yes,  / 
know.  Horace  Walpole  and  your  great-grand- 
mother. No — none !  "  To  Madeline  Mrs.  Aiken 
said  in  an  undertone,  "  I  told  you  how  it  would  be." 
That  young  lady  affected  a  lively  interest  in  scandal 
against  Queen  Elizabeth,  which  was  what  she  an- 
ticipated. 

"  I  myself,"  said  Aunt  Priscilla,  in  the  leisurely 
way  of  a  lecturer  who  has  secured  an  audience, 
"have  always  held  to  the  opinion  that  there  was  a 
marriage,  but  what  the  motives  may  have  been  for 
concealing  it  can  only  be  conjectured.  ..." 

This  was  too  leisurely  for  her  niece's  patience. 
It  provoked  a  species  of  sotto  voce  abstract  of  her 
aunt's  coming  statement  thus,  "  Oh  yes — do  get 
on!  You  cannot  otherwise  understand  how  so 


A  LIKELY  STORY  209 

rigid  an  observer  of  moral  law  as  your  great-grand- 
father, however  lamentable  his  religious  tenets  may 
have  been,  could  have  brought  himself  to  marry 
the  widow.  Do  get  on!  "  Which  proved  to  be  the 
substance  of  the  original,  as  soon  as  the  latter  was 
published.  But  it  certainly  got  over  the  ground 
quicker,  and  made  a  spurt  at  the  winning-post,  ar- 
riving almost  before  the  other  horse  started. 

"  This,"  resumed  Aunt  Priscilla,  after  a  small 
blank  for  the  congregation  to  sniff  and  cough,  if  so 
disposed,  "was  some  considerable  time  before  his 
accession  to  the  Earldom.  The  only  clue  that  has 
been  suggested  as  a  motive  for  concealment  of  the 
marriage  was  his  unaccountable  aversion  to  the 
title,  which  he  could  scarcely  have  indulged  if  ... 
There's  a  knock.  Do  see  if  it's  the  Tapleys,  and 
don't  let  them  go."  Mrs.  Aiken  rose  and  went  out, 
reciting  rapidly  another  forecast,  "  He-never-took- 
his  -  seat  -  in  -  the  -  House  -  of  -  Lords  -  and  -  signed- 
his  -  letters  -  '  the  -  Uncle  -  of  -  the  -  late  -  Earl  *  of- 
Orford.'  She'll  have  done  that  by  the  time  I'm 
back,"  as  she  left  the  room.  Miss  Upwell  felt  a  little 
resentment  at  this  lady's  treatment  of  her  aunt. 
After  all,  is  not  man  an  Atavistic  animal?  Is  not 
ancestor-worship  the  oldest  of  religions  ? 

It  was  the  Tapleys,  if  Madeline  had  not  heard 
the  name  wrong;  who  had  already  had  tea  with  the 
Outstrippingtons,  subject  to  the  same  reservation. 


210  A  LIKELY  STORY 

But  she  may  easily  have  got  both  names  wrong. 
She  thought  she  saw  a  chance  of  speaking  with  the 
niece  by  herself,  and  at  any  rate  appointing  a 
counter-visit  before  she  went  back  to  the  Stakes,  if 
she  cut  her  own  short  before  she  became  involved 
with  the  Tapleys,  as  might  happen;  and  that  would 
be  fatal,  she  felt.  So  she  suddenly  perceived  that 
she  must  not  keep  the  greys  standing  in  the  cold, 
and  got  past  the  incoming  Tapleys,  who  seemed  to 
be  in  mourning  for  the  human  race,  as  far  as  clothes 
went;  but  not  sorry  at  all,  if  you  came  to  that. 
She  had  failed,  and  must  give  up  the  object  of  her 
visit,  and  acknowledge  defeat.  And,  oh  dear,  how 
late  it  was ! 

She  could,  however,  get  a  word  or  two  with  the 
niece  before  departing,  unless  that  young  woman 
consigned  her  to  a  servant  and  fled  back  to  her 
Tapleys,  who  were  shouting  about  how  late  they 
were,  as  if  they  had  distinguished  themselves.  How- 
ever, Mrs.  Aiken  had  evidently  no  such  intention, 
but,  for  some  reason,  very  much  the  contrary. 

The  reason  came  out  as  soon  as  the  door  shut  the 
shouters  in,  leaving  her  and  her  visitor  in  the  passage, 
with  a  cap  and  a  white  apron  hanging  on  their  out- 
skirts, ready  for  prompt  action. 

First  Mrs.  Aiken  said,  "  I  am  afraid  Aunt  must 
have  bored  you  dreadfully,  Miss  Upwell.  She  and 
her  family !  Oh  dear !  " 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  211 

Madeline  answered  rather  stiffly :  "  It  was  very 
interesting.  I  enjoyed  listening."  For  she  would 
have  been  better  pleased  with  this  young  person  if 
she  had  taken  her  aunt's  part.  Her  own  mother 
prosed,  copiously,  about  ancestors;  but  she  herself 
never  tried  to  silence  her. 

However,  her  displeasure  melted  when  Mrs.  Aiken 
— having  told  the  cap  it  needn't  wait;  she  would 
call — coloured  and  hesitated,  and  wanted  to  say 
something. 

"  Yes,"  said  Madeline. 

"  I  was — was  so  grieved — to  see  about  your  friend. 
.  .  .  Oh  dear! — perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  talk  about 
it.  .  .  ." 

Miss  Upwell  felt  she  had  to  be  dignified.  After 
all  she  and  Jack  were  not  engaged.  "  You  mean 
Captain  Calverley,  Mrs.  Aiken,"  said  she.  "  We 
are  hoping  now — I  mean  his  family  are  hoping — to 
hear  from  him  every  day.  But,  of  course,  they  are 
— we  all  are — very  anxious." 

Mrs.  Aiken  looked  dubiously  at  her  visitor's  face, 
seeming  not  to  see  the  hand  that  was  suggesting  a 
good-bye  shake.  Then  she  said,  very  hesitatingly, 
"  I — I  didn't  know — is  there  a  hope  ?  I  only  see 
the  Telegraph/'  Then,  an  instant  after,  she  saw  her 
mistake.  She  might  at  least  have  had  the  sense 
to  say  nothing  about  the  Telegraph. 

Madeline  felt  her  colour  come  and  go,  and  her 


212  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

heart  getting  restless.  "  A  hope  ?  Oh  dear,  yes !  " 
How  bravely  she  said  it !  "  You  know  there  is  no 
proof  whatever  of  his  ..."  But  she  could  not  say 
"  death." 

"  Oh  no — no  proof,  of  course !  .  .  .  I  should  be 
so  glad  ...  I  suppose  they  only  meant  ..." 

All  Madeline's  courage  was  in  the  voice  that  suc- 
ceeded in  saying,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Aiken,  do  tell  me 
what  was  said.  I  daresay  it  was  all  nonsense.  The 
newspapers  get  all  sorts  of  stories." 

Mrs.  Aiken  would  have  given  something  to  be 
allowed  to  say  no  more  about  it.  She  stumbled  a 
good  deal  over  an  attempt  to  unsay  her  blunder. 
She  really  couldn't  be  positive.  Quite  as  likely  as 
not  the  paragraph  might  have  referred  to  someone 
else.  She  was  far  from  sure,  after  all,  that  the 
name  wasn't  Silverton.  Yes,  it  certainly  was,  Major 
Silverton — that  was  it! 

"  You  are  only  saying  that,"  said  Madeline,  gently 
but  firmly,  "  to  make  my  mind  easy.  It  is  kind — 
but — but  you  had  better  tell  me  now.  Haven't  you 
got  the  Telegraph  ?  I  can  buy  one,  of  course,  on  my 
way  home.  But  I  would  much  rather  know  now." 

Mrs.  Aiken  saw  no  way  of  keeping  it  back.  "  It's 
in  here — the  Telegraph"  said  she.  That  is,  it  was 
in  the  parlour  opposite  to  the  one  they  had  left. 
There  it  was,  sure  enough,  and  there,  in  clear  print, 
was  the  statement  of  its  correspondent  at  Something- 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  213 

fontein  or  other,  that  all  hopes  were  now  given  up 
of  the  reappearance  of  Captain  Calverley,  who  had 
been  missing  since  the  action  at  Burghersdrift,  as 
some  of  his  accoutrements  had  been  found  in  the 
river  below  Kroondorp,  and  it  was  now  looked  upon 
as  certain  that  he  was  drowned  shortly  after  the 
action. 

Madeline  knew  quite  well  that  she  had  in  herself 
an  ample  store  of  fortitude  if  only  she  could  get  a 
fair  chance  to  exercise  it.  But  a  horrible  sort  of 
ague-fit  had  possession  of  her,  and  got  at  her  teeth 
and  spoiled  her  speech.  It  would  go  off  directly, 
and  she  would  be  able  to  know  practically,  as  she 
now  did  theoretically,  that  it  was  no  use  paying 
attention  to  any  newspaper  correspondence.  She 
would  soon  get  right  in  the  air.  If  this  Mrs.  Aiken. 
would  only  have  the  sense  to  see  that  what  she 
wanted  was  to  get  away  and  have  herself  to  herself 
until  at  least  her  teeth  stopped  chattering!  But 
instead  of  that  the  tiresome  young  woman  must  needs 
say,  "  Oh  dear,  you  look  so  ill !  Shan't  I  get  you 
something  ? "  Which  was  silly,  because  what  on 
earth  could  she  have  got,  except  brandy,  or  some  such 
horror  ? 

Madeline  made  a  bad  shot  at  speech,  wishing  to 
say  that  she  would  be  all  right  directly,  but  really 
saying,  "  I  shall  be  reckly."  Collapse  into  a  prof- 
fered chair  enabled  her  to  add,  "  Leave  me  alone — 


214  A  LIKELY  STORY 

it's  nothing,"  and  to  sit  still  with  her  eyes  shut. 
Nervous  upsets  of  this  sort  soon  pass  off ;  and  by  the 
time  Mrs.  Aiken — who  felt  that  some  remedy  must 
be  exhibited,  for  the  honour  of  the  house — had  got 
at  one  through  an  emissary,  she  was  able  to  meet  it 
half-way.  "  Oh  yes — eau-de-Cologne,  please !  It's 
always  delightful !  "  ,  Whereat  Mrs.  Aiken  felt  proud 
and  successful,  and  Madeline  mopped  her  forehead, 
feeling  better. 

But  she  must  get  away  now  as  quick  as  possible. 
Her  card-castle  had  collapsed.  And,  indeed,  she 
felt  too  late  the  absurdity  of  it  all  from  the  beginning. 
So  far  from  being  able  to  produce  her  ghost,  or 
whatever  it  could  be  called,  in  extenuation  of  this 
young  lady's  reprobate  husband,  she  had  not  seen 
her  way  to  mentioning  him  at  all,  even  under  a 
pretext  with  which  she  had  flattered  her  hopes,  as  a 
last  resource,  that  she  knew  nothing  about  his  quarrel 
with  his  wife  and  their  separation.  It  might  have 
brought  him  on  the  tapis,  with  a  successful  result. 
There  was  no  chance  now,  even  if  she  had  felt  at  her 
best.  And  here  she  was,  morally  crippled  by  a  severe 
shock!  For  though,  of  course,  she  was  not  going 
to  pay  attention  to  newspaper  stuff,  it  was  a  severe 
shock  all  the  same. 

So  she  gathered  herself  up  to  say  good-bye,  and 
with  profusest  gratitude  for  the  eau-de-Cologne  de- 
parted. And  Mrs.  Aiken,  after  watching  the  brisk 


A  LIKELY  STORY  215 

start  of  the  greys,  and  thinking  how  bored  they 
must  have  been,  went  slowly  back  into  the  house, 
to  wonder  what  on  earth  could  have  brought  an  up- 
to-date  young  lady  out  of  the  Smart  Set  to  such  an  un- 
pretending mansion  as  Athabasca  Villa. 

She  wondered  also  whether  those  interminable 
Tapleys  were  going  to  talk  like  that  till  seven 
o'clock,  and  would  Aunt  P.  go  and  ask  them  to  stay 
to  supper  ?  Very  likely !  And  she  would  have  to  be 
civil  to  them  all  the  evening,  she,  supposed. 

Reflecting  thus,  her  eye  rested  on  the  corner  of 
the  mahogany  hall-bench,  with  a  roll  at  each  end; 
to  prevent  very  short  people  falling  over  sideways, 
presumably.  What  she  saw  made  her  say,  "  What's 
this,  Anne  ?  " 

"Which,  Ma'am?"  said  Anne.  "Perhaps  the 
Missis  knows." 

This  thing  was  inside  brown  paper,  and  rect- 
angular. The  corners  were  hard,  but  the  middle 
clicketted.  Probably  a  passe-partout.  At  least,  it 
could  be  nothing  else.  So  if  it  wasn't  a  passe-par- 
tout, it  was  non-suited,  quoad  existence.  Mrs.  Aiken 
opened  the  drawing-room  door,  meeting  a  gust  of 
the  Tapleys,  both  speaking  at  once.  It  didn't  matter. 
Aunt  Priscilla  heard  all  the  plainer  for  a  noise.  There 
certainly  was  one. 

Her  niece  said,  through  it,  "  Have  you  ordered  a 
photograph,  Aunty  ?  "  No,  no  photograph  had  been 


216  A  LIKELY  STORY 

ordered.  "  Then  I  shall  have  to  look  at  it,  to  see 
what  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Aiken.  The  Tapleys  sanc- 
tioned and  encouraged  this  course,  with  loud  shouts. 
And  it  really  is  a  capital  step  to  take  when  you  want 
to  find  out  what  a  thing  is,  to  look  at  it  and  see. 

It  was  a  photograph,  and  was  recognized  at  once 
by  Mrs.  Aiken  as  a  copy  from  the  Surley  Stakes 
picture.  It  was  a  print  of  the  photograph  that 
Madeline  had  sent  a  copy  of  to  Mr.  Aiken  at  the 
Studio,  a  long  time  before.  You  remember  how  it 
stood  on  the  table  while  he  talked  with  Mr.  Hughes  ? 
"  I  see,"  said  Euphemia ;  "  Miss  Upwell  must  have 
left  it  behind.  We  must  get  it  back  to  her."  And 
she  was  proceeding  to  wrap  it  up  again;  not,  how- 
ever, without  seeing  enough  of  it  to  be  sure  of  its 
identity. 

But  she  was  reckoning  without  her  guests,  who 
pounced  simultaneously  on  the  back  of  the  photo- 
graph, crying  out,  "  Stop ! — it's  written  on.  Read 
behind."  Whereupon  it  was  read  behind  that  this 
photograph  was  for  Mrs.  Reginald  Aiken,  Athabasca 
Villa,  Coombe.  "  I  suppose  she  brought  it  for  me," 
said  that  lady,  rather  sulkily. 

"  Whatever  she  came  for  I  can't  make  out,"  said 
the  niece  to  the  aunt  after  supper,  and  indeed  after 
the  departure  of  the  Tapleys.  For  Mrs.  Aiken's 
worst  anticipations  had  been  fulfilled,  and  they  had 


A  LIKELY  STORY  217 

been  invited  to  stay  to  supper  and  had  done  so 
remorselessly. 

The  aunt  could  throw  no  light  on  this  sudden 
appearance  of  Miss  Upwell.  "  She  has  great  charm 
of  manner,"  she  said.  "  She  reminds  me  a  little  of 
the  late  Lady  Betty  Dusters.  It  is  in  the  turn  of 
the  chin."  But  Miss  Bax's  chin,  cited  in  action  to 
confirm  this  turn,  was  unconvincing. 

Her  niece  ignored  the  late  Lady  Betty.  "  I 
think  the  girl  was  going  lengths  in  coming  at  all," 
she  said.  "  After  all,  what  did  it  amount  to  ?  Just 
that  she  and  this  young  soldier  of  hers  came  to 
the  Studio  to  see  a  picture.  And  supposing  it  did 
happen  on  the  day  when  Reginald  behaved  so  de- 
testably with  that  horrible  girl !  Doesn't  that  make 
it  all  the  other  way  round  ?  "  She  wished  to  express 
that  if  Miss  Upwell  had  come  to  know  about  her 
quarrel  with  her  husband,  she  should  have  kept  her 
distance  the  more  on  that  account.  But  she  was  not 
equal  to  the  ejffort,  and  perhaps  acknowledged  it 
when  she  said,  "  You  know  what  I  mean,  so  it's  no 
use  drum-drum-drumming  it  all  through,  like  a  cart- 
horse or  a  barrel-organ.  Anyhow,  Miss  Upsley 
Pupsley  would  have  shown  better  taste  to  keep  away, 
to  my  thinking!  " 

"  I  thought  you  seemed  to  like  her,  Euphemia," 
said  the  aunt,  meekly. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  didn't,"  said  the  niece. 


218  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

"  Then  I  won't  speak."  Which  resolve  of  Miss 
Priscilla's  is  inexplicable,  unless  due  allowance  is 
made  for  the  fact  that  familiar  domestic  chat  turns 
quite  as  much  on  the  way  it  omits,  as  the  way  it 
uses  words.  The  younger  lady's  manner  was  that  of 
one  in  whom  exasperation,  produced  by  unrighteous 
conspiracy,  was  being  kept  in  check  by  rare  powers 
of  self-control.  That  of  the  elder  indicated  constitu- 
tional toleration  of  the  waywardness  of  near  relations ; 
who  are,  as  we  know,  a  crotchetty  class.  When  one 
of  these,  in  addition  to  tapping  with  her  foot  and  look- 
ing flushed  and  ready  to  cry  on  small  provocation, 
bites  articles  of  virtu,  surely  a  certain  amount  of  for- 
bearance— an  irritating  practice — is  permissible. 

"  You'll  spoil  the  paper-knife,"  said  Miss  Priscilla. 
"  And  it  was  a  present  from  your  great-uncle  John 
Bulstrode,  when  he  came  from  India." 

Mrs.  Aiken  put  the  paper-knife  down  irritably, 
because  she  knew,  as  you  and  I  do,  that  when  those 
little  mosaic  pieces  once  come  out,  it's  no  use  trying 
to  stick  them  in  again.  But  she  said,  "  Bother  the 
paper-knife !  "  And  for  a  few  moments  her  soul  was 
content  to  find  expression  in  foot-tapping  and  lip- 
biting;  while  her  aunt  forbore,  and  took  up  her 
knitting. 

Then  she  got  up  and  paced  about  the  room,  rest- 
lessly. The  lamp  was  going  out,  or  wanted  seeing 
to.  She  turned  it  up;  but  if  lamps  are  going  out 


A  LIKELY  STORY  219 

for  want  of  oil,  turning  them  up  does  no  good,  and 
only  burns  the  wick  away.  They  have  to  be  prop- 
erly seen  to.  It  was  too  late  to  be  worth  putting 
fresh  oil  in,  this  time.  Candles  would  do,  or  for 
that  matter,  why  not  do  without  ?  The  firelight  was 
much  nicer. 

Mrs.  Reginald  Aiken  walked  about  the  room  while 
Miss  Priscilla  Bax  looked  at  the  fire  and  knitted. 
It  was  getting  on  for  bedtime. 

Suddenly  the  walker  stopped  opposite  the  knitter. 
"  Aunty !  "  said  she,  but  in  a  voice  that  almost 
seemed  to  add,  "  Do  talk  to  me  and  be  sympathetic. 
I'm  quite  reasonable  now." 

Her  aunt  seemed  to  accept  the  concession,  skip- 
ping ratifications.  "  Certainly,  my  dear  Euphemia," 
she  said,  with  dignity. 

"  Do  you  know  how  long  I've  been  here  ?  " 

Those  who  know  how  inconsequent  daily  famili- 
arity makes  blood  relations  who  live  together,  will 
see  nothing  odd  in  Miss  Priscilla's  reply :  "  My  dear 
niece,  listen  to  me,  and  do  not  interrupt.  What  was 
the  expression  I  used  when  you  first  announced  your 
engagement  to  Eeginald  ?  .  .  .  No — I  did  not  say 
it  was  a  come-down.  ..." 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  Afterwards  perhaps,  but  at  first,  Euphemia  ?  Be 
candid.  Did  I,  or  did  I  not,  use  the  expression, 
'Artists  are  all  alike?'  .  .  .  I  did?  Very  well! 


220  A  LIKELY  STORY 

And  I  said  too — and  you  cannot  deny  it — that  any 
woman  who  married  them  did  it  with  her  eyes  open, 
and  had  only  herself  to  thank  for  it.  They  are  all 
alike,  and  Reginald  is  no  exception  to  the  rule." 
At  this  point  Miss  Priscilla  may  have  had  misgiv- 
ings about  sustaining  the  performance,  for  she  ended 
abruptly  on  the  dominant,  "  And  then  you  ask  me  if 
I  know  how  long  you  have  been  here !  " 

"  Because  it's  six  months,  Aunty — over  six 
months!  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  should  ask? 
Besides,  when  I  first  came  I  never  meant  to  stay. 
I  was  going  back  when  Reginald  wrote  that  letter. 
Fancy  his  daring  to  say  there  was  no — what  was 
that  he  called  it  ? — you  know — l  casus  belli ! ' 
An  odious  girl  like  that !  And  then  to  say  if  I  really 
believed  it  I  ought  to  go  into  Court  and  swear  to 
things !  How  could  I,  with  that  Sairah  ?  Oh  dear 
— if  it  had  only  been  a  lady! — or  even  a  decent 
woman!  Anything  one  could  produce!  But — 
Sairah!" 

This  young  lady — mind  you! — was  only  trying 
to  express  a  very  common  feeling,  which,  if  you 
happen  to  be  a  young  married  woman  you  will 
probably  recognize  and  sympathize  with.  Suppose 
you  were  obliged  to  seek  legal  ratification  of  your 
case  against  a  faithless  spouse,  think  how  much 
more  cheerfully  you  would  appear  in  court  if  the  op- 
position charmer  was  a  Countess !  Think  how  grate- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  221 

ful  you  would  be  if  the  culprits  had  made  them- 
selves indictable  in  terms  you  could  use,  and  still 
know  which  way  to  look;  if,  for  instance,  they  had 
had  the  decency  to  reside  at  fashionable  hotels  and 
pass  themselves  off  as  the  Spenser  Smyths,  or  the 
Poole  Browns.  These  are  only  suggestions,  to  help 
your  imagination.  The  present  writer  knows  no  such 
persons.  In  fact,  he  made  these  names,  out  of  his 
own  head. 

But — Sairah!  Just  fancy  reading  in  the  Tele- 
graph that  the  petitioner  complained  of  her  husband's 
misconduct  with  .  .  .  Oh — it  would  be  too  dis- 
gusting for  words !  After  all,  she,  the  petitioner,  had 
a  right  to  be  considered  a — she  detested  the  ex- 
pression, but  what  on  earth  were  you  to  say  ? — LADY  ! 
What  had  she  done  that  she  should  be  dragged  down 
and  degraded  like  that  ? 

It  had  been  Miss  Priscilla's  misfortune — as  has 
been  hinted  already — to  contribute  to  the  pro- 
longation of  her  niece's  residence  with  her  by  the 
lines  on  which  she  herself  seemed  to  be  seeking  to 
bring  it  to  an  end.  Nothing  irritated  this  injured 
wife  more  than  to  be  reminded  of  feminine  subor- 
dination to  man  as  seen  from  an  hierarchical  stand- 
point. So  when  her  aunt  quoted  St.  Paul — under 
the  impression  that  extraordinary  man's  corre- 
spondence so  frequently  produces,  that  she  was  quot- 
ing His  Master — her  natural  irritation  at  his  oriental 


222  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

views  of  the  woman  question  only  confirmed  her  in 
her  obduracy,  and  left  her  more  determined  than  ever 
in  her  resentment  against  a  husband  who  had  read 
St.  Paul  very  carelessly  if  at  all,  and  who  took  no 
interest  in  churches  apart  from  their  Music  and 
Architecture. 

Therefore,  when  Aunt  Priscilla  responded  to  her 
niece's  exclamation,  which  has  been  waiting  so  long 
for  an  answer,  with  her  usual  homily,  it  produced 
its  usual  result.  "  I  can  only  urge  you,  my  dear 
Euphemia,  to  turn  your  thoughts  to  the  Words  of 
One  who  is  Wiser  than  ourselves.  It  is  no  use 
your  saying  it's  only  Colossians.  Besides,  it's 
Ephesians  too.  The  place  where  it  occurs  is  ab- 
solutely unimportant.  '  Wives,  submit  yourselves 
to  your  husbands,  as  it  is  fit  in  the  Lord.'  Those  are 
The  Words."  Miss  Priscilla  handled  her  capitals 
impressively.  The  music  stopped  on  a  majestic 
chord,  and  her  rebellious  niece  was  cowed  for  the  mo- 
ment. JSTot  to  disturb  the  effect,  the  old  lady,  having 
lighted  her  own  bedroom  candle,  kissed  her  benedic- 
tionally,  with  a  sense  of  doing  it  in  Jacobean  Eng- 
lish— or  should  we  say  Jacobean  silence? — corre- 
sponding thereto,  and  left  her,  accepting  as  valid  a 
promise  to  follow  shortly. 

But  there  was  a  comfortable  armchair  still  making, 
before  a  substantial  amount  of  fire,  its  mute  appeal, 
"  Sit  down  in  me."  The  fire  added,  "  Do,  and  I'll 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  223 

roast  you  for  twenty  minutes  more  at  least."  It 
said  nothing  about  chilblains,  but  it  must  have  known. 
Mrs.  Aiken  acted  on  its  advice,  and  sat  looking  at 
it,  and  listening  to  an  intermittent  volcano  in  one  of 
its  corners. 

The  volcano  was  flagging,  subject  to  recrudescence 
— for  a  certain  latitude  has  to  be  given  to  Derby 
Brights  and  Wombwell  Main — before  Mrs.  Aiken 
released  her  underlip,  bitten  as  a  counter-irritant  to 
Scripture  precepts.  Aunt  Priscey  was  trying!  But, 
then,  how  good  she  was!  Where  on  earth  would 
she,  Euphernia  Aikeu,  have  gone  to  look  for  an 
anchorage,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Priscey  ?  She 
calmed  down  slowly,  and  Colossians  died  away  in 
the  soothing  ripple  of  the  volcano. 

But  the  fire  was  hot  still,  and  she  wanted  a  screen. 
She  took  the  first  thing  her  hand  lighted  on.  It 
was  the  photograph.  It  would  do.  But  she  hated 
the  sight  of  it  when  the  volcano  made  a  spurt,  and 
set  the  shadows  dancing  over  the  whole  room.  She 
turned  it  away  from  her  towards  the  fire,  to  see  the 
blank  back  only,  and  calm  down  in  the  stillness,  un- 
exasperated. 

Presently,  for  some  reason,  it  became  irksome  to 
hold  it  up.  But  it  must  be  kept  between  <her  face 
and  the  fire.  She  let  it  fall  forward  on  her  face,  still 
half  holding  it,  and  listened  to  the  volcano.  She 
could  sit  and  think  about  things,  and  not  go  to  sleep. 


224  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

Of  course  she  could.  It  would  never  do  to  spoil  her 
night's  rest. 

Was  it  really  six  whole  months  since  she  quarrelled 
with  Reginald?  She  recited  the  months  to  make 
herself  believe  them  actual,  and  failed.  It  did  not 
really  matter,  though,  how  long  it  was.  If  Reginald 
had  been  ill,  she  could  have  gone  back  any  time, 
and  without  any  sacrifice  of  pride.  Aunt  Priscey 
would  have  found  out  a  text,  proving  it  a  Christian 
duty  more  than  ever.  A  little  seductive  drama 
crept  through  her  mind,  in  which  Reginald,  smitten 
with  some  disorder  of  a  good  practicable  sort  for  the 
piece — not  a  dangerous  or  nasty  one,  you  know! — 
had  put  all  his  pride  in  his  pocket,  and  written  a 
letter  humbly  begging  her  forgiveness;  acknowledg- 
ing his  weakness,  his  evil  behaviour,  and  acquitting 
her  of  the  smallest  trace  of  unreasonable  punctilio. 
It  was  signed,  "  Your  lonely  husband,  Reginald 
Hay,"  that  being  a  form  domestic  pleasantry  in  the 
past  had  sanctioned.  Something  choked  in  her  throat 
over  this  touching  episode  of  her  own  creation. 

But  it  dispersed  obsequiously  when  at  a  moment's 
notice — in  her  dream,  you  understand ;  dreamt  as  in 
the  middle  of  dinner,  to  establish  self-sacrifice  as  her 
portion — she  started  and  arrived  in  time  to  save 
Reginald  from  a  sinister  nurse,  whose  elimination 
made  an  important  passage  in  the  drama.  She  got 
as  far  as  the  commencement  of  a  letter  to  her  aunt, 


A  LIKELY  STORY  225 

describing  this  achievement.  At  this  point  drowsi- 
ness got  the  better  of  her,  presumably.  For  her 
imaginary  pen  became  tangible,  and  her  paper  was 
beautiful,  only  it  was  stamped  "  At  Aunt's,"  which 
seemed  absurd.  And  she  could  only  write  the  words 
"  My  pride,"  which  seemed  more  so. 

Then  she  woke,  or  seemed  to  wake,  with  a  start, 
saying  aloud,  to  no  one,  "  This  will  never  do ;  I 
shall  spoil  my  night's  rest."  But  on  the  very  edge 
of  her  waking  someone  had  said,  in  her  dream,  in 
a  sort  of  sharp  whisper,  "  Perhaps  it  is."  And  it 
was  this  voice  that  had  waked  her.  She  found  it 
hard  to  believe  that  an  outside  voice  had  not  spoken 
into  her  dream.  But  no  one  was  there,  and  had  the 
room  been  full  of  folk,  none  of  them  could  have  read 
the  words  on  her  dream-paper.  And  to  her  half- 
awake  mind  it  seemed  that  "  Perhaps  it  is  "  could 
only  apply  to  what  she  had  succeeded  in  writing. 
However,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  at  this  moment, 
she  believed  herself  fully  awake. 

Later  she  had  reason  to  doubt  it.  Or  rather,  she 
became  convinced  of  the  contrary  by  the  subsequent 
course  of  events,  which  need  not  be  anticipated  now. 
During  what  followed,  one  would  say  that  she  must 
have  had  misgivings  that  she  was  dreaming.  But 
she  seems  not  to  have  had  many  or  strong  ones; 
although  she  may  have  made  use  of  the  expression, 
"  I  could  hardly  believe  I  was  awake,"  as  a  mere 


226  A  LIKELY  STORY 

phrase  of  wonderment — just  as  you  or  I  have  used 
it  before  now.  For  when  next  day  she  described 
this  experience  to  her  cousin  Volumnia,  who  had 
been  much  in  her  confidence  during  these  last 
months,  who  said  to  her,  "  Of  course,  you  were  asleep, 
because  that  is  the  only  way  of  accounting  for  it 
reasonably,"  her  reply  was,  "  Then  we  shall  have 
to  account  for  it  unreasonably,  because  I  was 
awake." 

"  Well — go  on,  and  tell,"  was  the  reply.  This 
cousin  Volumnia,  the  elder  sister  of  that  little 
monkey  Jessie,  was  of  course  the  grim  big  Miss  Bas 
Miss  Upwell  had  met  at  Lady  Presteign's,  and,  as 
we  have  seen,  she  was  a  very  determined  person, 
one  who  would  stand  no  nonsense.  "  Start  from 
where  the  voice  woke  you,  Cousin  Euphemia,"  said 
she.  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  frowned,  so  as  to  listen 
judicially. 

"  I  laid  the  photograph  on  the  table,"  said  Mrs. 
Aiken,  with  circumflex  accents  over  every  other 
syllable,  which  is  how  to  tell  things  clearly.  But 
Miss  Volumnia  said,  "  You  needn't  pounce.  I  can 
hear."  So  she  became  normal.  "  I  was  absolutely 
certain  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room.  And 
everything  seemed  as  usual;  not  the  least  like  a 
dream.  But  for  all  that  .  .  .  you  won't  believe 
me,  Volumnia.  ..." 

"Very  likely.     Goon!" 


A  LIKELY  STORY  227 

"  For  all  that  I  heard  a  voice — the  same  voice 
that  waked  me  up.  ..." 

"  Of  course !  You  were  still  asleep.  I  know. 
Go  on !  What  did  the  voice  say  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't  go  on  at  all,  Volumnia,  if  you're 
going  to  be  nasty." 

"  Oh  yes,  do  go  on.  I'm  greatly  interested.  But 
you  must  remember  that  we  hear  thousands  of  these 
things  every  week  at  the  Psychomorphic.  We  had 
a  very  interesting  case  only  the  other  day.  A  man 
heard  a  dog  barking.  .  .  .  However,  go  on." 

"  Very  well,  only  you  mustn't  interrupt.  What 
was  I  saying  ?  .  .  .  Oh  yes — the  voice !  I  heard 
it  quite  distinctly,  only  very  small.  .  .  .  Non- 
sense!— you  know  quite  well  what  I  mean.  .  .  . 
What  did  it  say  ?  What  I  heard  was,  '  Hold  me  up, 
and  let  me  look  at  you.'  Now  I  know,  my  dear 
Volumnia,  you  will  say  I  am  making  it  improbable 
on  purpose.  ..." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  Euphemia !  The  case  is 
commoner  than  you  suppose,  even  when  the  subject 
is  wide  awake.  Please  tell  it  exactly  as  you  recollect 
it.  Soften  nothing."  The  implication  was  that 
Psychomorphism  would  know  how  much  to  take, 
and  how  much  to  reject. 

"  I  am  telling  it  exactly  as  it  happened.  It 
said  ..." 

"What  said?" 


228  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  The  picture  said." 

"  The  picture!  Oh,  we  hadn't  come  to  that.  Now 
what  does  that  mean  ?  The  picture  said !  " 

"  Volumnia ! — IF  you  interrupt  I  can't  tell  it  at 
all.  Do  let  me  go  on  my  own  way." 

"  Yes — perhaps  that  will  be  better.  I  can  analyze 
afterwards." 

"  Well — the  voice  seemed  to  come  from  the 
picture — the  photo,  I  mean.  It  said  quite  unmis- 
takably, but  in  a  tiny  voice,  '  Pick  me  up,  and  let 
me  look  at  you.'  ..." 

"  You  said  <  hold  '  before.     Now  it's  <  pick.'  " 

"  Eeally,  Cousin  Volumnia,  I  declare  I  won't  go 
on  unless.  ..." 

"All  right— all  right!  I'll  be  good."  A  little 
pause  came  here  owing  to  Mrs.  Aiken  stipulating  for 
guarantees.  A  modus  vivendi  was  found,  and  she 
•continued. 

"  I  did  as  the  voice  said,  and  held  the  picture  up, 
looking  at  it.  I  can't  imagine  how  I  came  to  take 
it  so  coolly.  But  you  know,  Volumnia,  how  it  is 
when  a  perfect  stranger  speaks  to  you  in  an  omnibus, 
and  evidently  takes  you  for  somebody  else,  how 
civil  you  are?  .  .  .  Well — of  course,  I  mean  a 
lady !  How  can  you  be  so  absurd  ?  I  said  to  it  that 
I  had  never  heard  a  photograph  speak  before.  The 
voice  replied,  '  That  is  because  you  never  listen. 
If  r.  Perry  hears  me  because  he  listens.'  I  asked  who 


A  LIKELY  STORY 

this  was,  and  the  voice  replied,  '  The  little  old  gen- 
tleman who  comes  here.'  I  said,  l  No  little  old  gen- 
tleman comes  here.  Do  you  know  where  you  are  ? ' 
And  do  you  know,  Volumnia,  the  voice  said,  i  In  the 
Library  at  Surley  Stakes,  over  the  stoofer.'  What 
could  that  mean  ?  " 

"  Can't  imagine.  But  I'm  not  to  speak,  you  know. 
That's  the  bargain.  Go  on." 

"  Well — I  told  the  woman  in  the  photograph  where 
she  was,  and  the  voice  said,  '  I  suppose  you  know,' 
and  then  asked  if  this  was  the  place  where  she  saw 
me  before.  I  said  no — that  was  my  husband's 
Studio.  *  But,'  I  said,  '  you  were  not  made.'  She 
seemed  not  to  understand,  and  persisted  that  she  re- 
membered seeing  me  there." 

"  Do  excuse  my  interrupting  just  this  once,"  said 
Miss  Volumnia.  "  I  won't  do  it  again.  I  only  wish 
to  point  out  how  clearly  this  shows  the  dream- 
character  of  the  phenomenon.  Is  it  credible  that, 
admitting  for  the  sake  of  hypothesis  an  independent 
intelligence,  that  intelligence  would  recollect  occur- 
rences before  it  came  into  existence?  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  picture-woman's  claim  to  identity  carries 
its  own  condemnation.  How  could  ideas  existing 
in  the  mind  of  the  original  picture  reappear 
in  the  mind  of  a  photograph,  however  carefully 
made?" 

"  It  was  the  same  woman,  Volumnia,"  said  Mrs. 


230  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Aiken,  beginning  to  stand  on  the  rights  of  her 
Phenomenon,  as  people  do.  "  I  do  think,  dear,  you 
are  only  cavilling  and  making  difficulties." 

"  I  think  my  objection  holds  good.  When  we 
consider  the  nature  of  photography  ..." 

"  Why  is  it  more  impossible  than  the  original 
picture  seeing  me  and  recollecting  ?  " 

"  The  demand  on  my  power  of  belief  is  greater  in 
the  case  of  a  copy,  however  accurate.  And  it  would 
become  greater  still  in  the  case  of  a  copy  of  a  copy. 
And  so  on."  This  was  not  original.  A  paper  read 
at  her  Society  was  responsible  for  most  of  it.  "  How- 
ever," she  added,  "  we  needn't  discuss  this  now. 
Go  on." 

"  Then  don't  prose.  You  really  are  straining  at 
gnats  and  swallowing  camels,  Volumnia.  Well — 
where  was  I?  ...  Oh  yes,  the  Studio!  The 
voice  went  on — and  now  this  does  show  that  it  didn't 
come  out  of  my  own  head — '  I  remember  the  Studio, 
and  I  remember  a  misunderstanding  between  your- 
self and  your  husband  that  might  easily  have  led  to 
serious  consequences.'  Now  you  know,  Volumnia, 
that  could  not  have  come  out  of  my  own — my  own 
inner  consciousness.  ...  Is  that  right? — Now 
could  it  ?  " 

Miss  Volumnia  shook  an  unbiassed  head,  on  its 
guard  against  rash  conclusions.  "  The  same  is 
true,"  she  said,  "  of  so  many  dream-impressions. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  231 

Did  you  make  the  photograph  acquainted  with  the 
actual  position  of  things  ?  " 

Mrs.  Aiken  seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment.  "  Was 
I  bound  to  take  it  into  my  confidence  ? "  she  said. 
"  Anyhow  it  seemed  to  me  at  the  time  most  uncalled 
for." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  said — because  as  it  was  only  a  photograph  I 
thought  it  didn't  matter — I  said  that  fortunately 
no  such  result  had  come  about.  I  then  pressed  it 
to  say  more  explicitly  what  it  referred  to.  ... 
What?" 

"  Nothing — go  on.  .  .  .  Well,  I  was  only  going 
to  say  that  in  my  opinion  you  were  playing  with  edged 
tools.  The  slightest  departure  from  the  principle  of 
speaking  the  Truth  is  fraught  with  danger  to  the 
speaker.  .  .  .  Yes — and  then  ?  " 

"  Well — did  it  matter  ?  Anyhow,  let  me  get  on. 
I  asked  what  it  meant — what  misunderstanding  it 
referred  to.  And  do  you  know,  \rolumnia,  the  voice 
began  and  gave  a  most  accurate  account  of  Miss 
What's-her-name — Pupsley  Wupsley's — visit  to  the 
Studio,  and  described  that  poor  young  Captain 
Thingumbob  most  accurately.  All  I  can  say  is  that 
it  did  not  make  a  single  mistake  ..." 

"  Of  course  not !  " 

"  Why  <  of  course  not '  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  merely  your  own  Memory  un- 


232  A  LIKELY  STORY 

consciously  at  work;  doing  the  job  on  its  own,  as 
my  young  nephew  would  say.  It  may  have  been 
wrong,  but  would  seem  to  you  right." 

"  Then  why  doesn't  what  followed  after  I  left  the 
Studio  seem  to  me  right  too  ?  " 

Miss  Volumnia  said,  as  from  the  seat  of  Judg- 
ment, "  Let's  hear  it."  Thereupon  her  friend  gave, 
with  conscientious  effort  to  report  truly,  the  photo- 
graph's version  of  what  passed  in  the  Studio  between 
her  husband  and  the  odious  Sairah.  It  corresponded 
closely  with  that  already  given  in  this  story. 

As  Miss  Volumnia's  interruptions  became  frequent 
towards  the  close  of  this  narrative,  it  may  be  best  to 
summarize  it,  as  near  as  may  be,  in  the  words  of  the 
photograph,  which  had  said,  or  seemed  to  say :  "  I 
did  indeed  tremble  to  think  what  misconstruction 
might  be  put  on  half-heard  words  of  this  interview 
of  this  young  English  maiden  with  your  husband. 
For  I  could  remember  well  how  at  the  little  Castello 
in  the  Apennines  Icilia  Ciaranfi,  a  girl  of  great  spirit, 
finding  her  new-made  husband  enacting  some  such 
pleasantry  as  this — but  quite  blamelessly — with 
Donnina  Magliabecchi,  stabbed  both  to  death  there 
and  then ;  and  her  great  grief  when  Donnina's  lover 
Beppe  made  it  clear  to  her  that  this  was  but  a  foolish 
jest  to  which  he  himself  was  privy.  And  thinking 
of  this  painful  matter  I  rejoiced  that  you,  Signora, 
yourself  should  have  been  guided  by  counsels  of 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  233 

moderation,  at  most  withdrawing  for  a  term — so  I 
understood — to  the  house  of  a  relation  as  to  a  haven, 
when  no  doubt  all  asperity  of  feeling  would  soon 
give  place  to  forgiveness.  I  could  see  that  in  your 
case,  had  you  yielded  to  the  mistaken  impulse  of 
Icilia,  no  such  consolation  as  she  found  could  have 
been  yours.  For  I  understood  this — though  I  was 
young  at  the  time — that  so  deeply  was  Beppe 
touched  by  Icilia's  remorse  for  her  rash  action,  and 
she  so  ready  to  give  her  love  in  compensation  for 
what  he  had  lost,  that  each  flew  as  it  were  to  the 
embrace  of  the  other,  and  the  two  of  them  fled 
then  and  there,  and  thence  Icilia  escaped  the 
officers  of  Justice.  Now  this  surely  would  have 
been  an  impossible  resource  to  yourself  and  the 
lover  of  la  Sera,  wrho,  unless  I  am  mistaken  in  think- 
ing that  those  who  '  keep  company '  are  lovers  in 
your  land,  was  the  person  I  heard  spoken  of  as  '  The 
Dust.'  Which  is  in  our  tongue  '  La  Mondezza.'  But 
I  understood  that  while  he  was  a  man,  and  in  that 
sense  competent  for  Love,  although  called  by  a  name 
fitter  for  a  woman,  yet  was  he  socially  on  a  level 
with  those  whom  we  others  in  Italy  call  spazzini,  and 
no  fit  mate  for  a  Signora  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding. 
"  So  that  although  I  heard  afar  that  the  Signore 
and  yourself  came  to  high  words  on  this  subject, 
and  gathered  that  you  had  departed  in  wrath  to  seek 
shelter  with  an  aunt,  I  thought  of  this  dissension 


234  A  LIKELY  STORY 

as  one  that  would  soon  be  forgotten,  and  a  matter 
of  the  past.  The  more  so  that  your  Signore's  own 
words  to  his  friends  reassured  me;  to  whom  he  said 
more  than  once  that  you  would  be  the  best  woman 
in  the  world  but  for  a  defect  I  did  not  understand 
from  his  description,  that  when  you  flew  into  a 
blooming  rage  you  could  not  keep  your  hair  on,  but 
that  it  wouldn't  last  and  you  would  be  back  in  a 
week,  because  you  knew  he  couldn't  do  without 
you.  He  set  my  mind  at  rest  by  treating  the  idea 
of  any  lasting  breach  between  you  as  something 
too  absurd  for  speech.  But  I  tell  you  this  for 
certain,  that  I  saw  all  that  passed  between  him  and 
la  Sera,  and  that  if  you  are  keeping  your  resentment 
alive  with  the  thought  that  he  was  guilty  of  anything 
but  an  ill-judged  joke,  you  are  doing  grievous 
injustice  to  him  as  well  as  yourself.  Return  to  him, 
Signora,  forthwith;  and  beware  henceforward  of 
foolish  jealousy  and  needless  quarrels !  " 

The  foregoing  is  a  much  more  complete  version 
of  what  the  photograph  seemed  to  say  than  Mrs. 
Aiken's  fragmentary  report  to  her  cousin.  She  had 
not  Mr.  Felly's  extraordinary  memory,  and,  more- 
over, she  had  to  omit  phrases  and  even  sentences 
that  were  given  in  Italian.  Miss  Volumnia  Bax, 
when  not  interrupting,  checked  off  the  narrative 
with  nods  at  intervals,  each  nod  seeming  to  be 
fraught  with  confirmed  foresight  of  the  preceding 


A  LIKELY  STOKY  235 

instalment.  "When  it  ended,  she  launched  at  once, 
without  a  moment's  pause,  into  a  well-considered 
judgment,  or  rather  abstract  of  a  Report  of  the 
Case,  which  her  mind  was  already  scheming  to  read 
at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Psychomorphic.  This  Re- 
port, printed  recently  by  the  Society,  containing  all 
that  Miss  Volumnia  said  to  her  cousin  on  first  hear- 
ing the  tale,  as  well  as  many  valuable  remarks,  com- 
mences as  follows : 

"  Case  54103A.  Dream  or  Pseudodream,  reported 
by  Miss  Volumnia  Bax.  The  subject  of  this  ex- 
perience, whom  we  will  call  Mrs.  A.,  is  reluctant  to 
admit  that  she  was  not  awake  when  it  happened, 
however  frequently  the  absurdity  of  this  view  is 
pointed  out  to  her.  So  strong  is  this  impression  that 
if  other  members  of  her  family  had  been  subject  to 
hallucination  or  insanity,  or  even  victims  of  alcohol- 
ism, we  should  incline  to  place  this  case  in  some 
corresponding  class.  As  it  is,  we  have  nothing  but 
the  word  of  the  narrator  to  warrant  our  assigning  it 
a  place  outside  ordinary  Somnistic  Phenomena." 

This  story  is  not  answerable  for  the  technical 
phrases  of  what  is,  after  all,  merely  a  suburban 
Research  Society.  The  Report  goes  on  to  give, 
very  fairly,  the  incident  as  already  narrated,  and 
concludes  thus: 

"  It  will  be  observed  that  nothing  that  the  dreamer 
put  into  the  mouth  of  the  photographic  speaker  was 


236  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

beyond  her  imaginative  powers,  subconscious  or 
superconscious.  It  may  be  urged  that  the  absurdly 
romantic  Italian  story  implies  a  knowledge  of  Italian 
matters  which  the  dreamer  did  not  possess,  or  at  least 
emphatically  disclaims.  But  nothing  but  the  veri- 
fication of  the  story  can  prove  that  the  names,  for 
instance,  were  not  due  to  subconscious  activity  of  the 
dreamer's  brain.  On  the  other  hand — and  this 
shows  how  closely  the  investigator  of  Psychic 
Phenomena  has  to  follow  their  intricacies — inquiry 
has  elicited  the  fact  that  Mrs.  A.'s  husband  once 
spent  a  week  in  Florence  at  a  Pension  in  the  Piazza. 
Indipendenza  and  no  doubt  became  familiar  with 
the  habits  of  Italians.  What  is  more  likely  than  that 
she  should  unconsciously  remember  passages  of  her 
husband's  Italian  experience,  as  narrated  by  him- 
self? We  are  certainly  warranted  in  assuming  this 
as  a  working  hypothesis,  while  admitting  our  obliga- 
tion to  sift  Italian  History  for  some  confirmation  of 
the  dramatic  (but  not  necessarily  improbable)  inci- 
dent of  Icilia  Ciaranfi  and  Donnina  Magliabecchi — > 
both,  by  the  way,  suspiciously  Florentine  names! 
We  repeat  that,  failing  further  evidence,  we  are 
justified  in  placing  this  story  in  section  M  103,  as  a 
Pseudo-real  Hypermnemonism." 

The  Report,  of  course,  said  nothing  of  the  advice 
its  writer  had  felt  warranted  in  giving  Mrs.  A.,  as 
a  corollary  to  her  summary  of  the  views  she  after- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  237 

wards  embodied  in  it.  "  If  you  want  my  opinion, 
Cousin  Euphemia,"  she  said,  "  it  is  that  the  sooner 
you  make  it  up  with  your  husband  the  better !  It's 
quite  clear  from  the  dream  that  you  want  to  do  so." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Aiken. 

"  Clearly !  Your  subconscious  self  constituted  this 
nonsensical  photograph  the  exponent  of  its  auto- 
matically cryptic  Idea,  while  you  were  in  a  state  of 
Self -Induced  Hypnosis.  ..." 

"  Does  that  mean  while  I  was  asleep  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  It  is  a  condition  brought  about 
by  fixing  the  attention.  You  had,  by  your  own  ad- 
mission, been  looking  at  the  fire." 

"  ~No — I  held  up  the  photograph." 

"  Then  you  had  been  looking  at  the  photograph." 

"  Only  the  back." 

"  It's  the  same  thing.  I  am  distinctly  of  opinion 
that  it  was  Self-Induced  Hypnosis.  In  this  condi- 
tion the  subconscious  self  may  as  it  were  take  the 
bit  in  its  teeth,  and  energize  whatever  bias  towards 
common  sense  the  subject  may  happen  to  possess.  In 
your  case  the  photograph's  speech  and  its  grotesque 
fictions  were  merely  pegs,  so  to  speak,  on  which  to 
hang  an  exposition  of  your  own  subconscious  cryptic 
Idea.  Does  not  the  fact  that  you  are  at  this  moment 
prepared  to  deny  the  existence  of  this  Idea  prove 
the  truth  of  what  I  say  ?  " 


238  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  I  daresay  it's  very  clever  and  very  wise.  But  I 
can't  understand  a  word  of  it,  and  you  can't  expect 
me  to.  All  I  know  is,  that  if  it's  to  be  submission 
and  Colossians  and  Ephesians  and  stuff,  back  to 
Reginald  I  don't  go.  And  as  far  as  I  can  see,  Science 
only  makes  it  ten  times  worse.  ...  So  there !  " 

"  Your  attitude  of  mind,  my  dear  Euphemia,"  said 
Miss  Volumnia,  "  furnishes  the  strongest  confirma- 
tion possible  of  the  truth  of  my  interpretation  of  the 
Phenomenon.  But  I  must  go  or  I  shall  lose  my 
train." 

"  How  I  do  hate  patronizing  people !  "  said  Mrs. 
Aiken,  going  back  into  the  drawing-room  after  see- 
ing her  cousin  off. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HOW  MRS.  EUPHEMIA  AIKEN  FOUND  MADELINE  AT  HOME,  WHO 
CONSEQUENTLY  DID  NOT  GO  TO  A  BUN-WOBBY.  BUT  SHE  HAD 
MET  MISS  BAX.  HOW  THESE  LADIES  EACH  CONFESSED  TO 
BOGYISM,  OF  A  SOBT,  AND  MADELINE  SAID  MAKE  IT  UP. 
HOW  MB.  AIKEN  TOOK  MB.  TICK'S  ADVICE  ABOUT  DIANA,  BUT 
COULD  NOT  FIND  HIS  TBANSPABENT  OXIDE  OF  CHBOMIUM. 
MAN  AT  HIS  LONELIEST.  NO  TEA.  AND  WHAT  A  JUGGINS 
HE  HAD  BEEN!  OF  MBS.  GAPP'S  DIPSOMANIA.  THE  BOYS. 
HOW  MR.  AIKEN  LIT  THE  GAS,  AND  HEARD  A  CAB.  HOW  HE 
NEARLY  KISSED  MADELINE,  WHO  HAD  BROUGHT  HIS  WIFE 
HOME,  BUT  IT  WAS  ONLY  A  MISTAKE,  GLOBY  BE!  WAS  THERE 
SOAP  IN  THE  HOUSE? 

MKS.  AIKEN  tortured  her  speculating  powers  for 
awhile  with  endeavours  to  put  this  curious  event  on 
an  intelligible  footing,  and  was  before  long  in  a 
position  to  "  dismiss  it  from  her  mind  " ;  or,  if  not 
quite  that,  to  give  it  a  month's  notice.  It  certainly 
seemed  much  less  true  on  the  second  day  after  it 
happened  than  on  the  first;  and,  at  that  rate,  in  a 
twelvemonth  it  would  never  have  happened  at  all. 
But  her  passive  acceptance  of  a  thing  intrinsically 
impossible  and  ridiculous — because,  of  course,  we 
know,  etc.,  etc. — was  destined  to  undergo  a  rude 
shock.  After  taking  her  aunt's  advice  about  the 
duration  of  the  usual  pause — not  to  seem  to  have  too 
violent  a  "  Sehnsucht "  for  your  card-leavers — the 

239 


240  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

lady  paid  her  visit  to  Miss  Upwell  at  her  parents' 
stuck-up,  pretentious  abode  in  Eaton  Square.  We 
do  not  give  the  number,  as  to  do  so  would  be  to 
bring  down  a  storm  of  inquiries  from  investigators 
of  phenomena. 

She  gave  her  card  to  the  overfed  menial,  who 
read  it — and  it  was  no  business  of  his !  He  then 
put  it  upside  down — his  upside  down — on  a  salver, 
for  easy  perusal  by  bloated  oligarchs.  The  voice  of 
an  oligarch  rang  out  from  the  room  he  disappeared 
into,  quite  deliciously,  and  filled  the  empty  house. 
Madeline  was  delighted  to  see  Mrs.  Aiken — had  been 
going  to  a  Bun-Worry.  Now  she  should  do  nothing 
of  the  sort;  she  would  much  rather  have  tea  at 
home,  and  a  long  talk  with  Mrs.  Aiken.  She  con- 
firmed this  by  cancelling  her  out-of-door  costume, 
possibly  to  set  the  visitor  at  her  ease.  Anyhow,  it 
had  that  effect.  In  fact,  if  either  showed  a  trace 
of  uneasiness,  it  was  Madeline.  She  more  than 
once  began  to  say  something  she  did  not  finish,  and 
once  said,  "  Never  mind,"  to  excuse  her  deficit.  Of 
course  Mrs.  Aiken  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what 
was  passing  in  her  mind ;  or  rather,  imputed  it  to  a 
hesitation  on  the  threshold  of  sympathetic  speech 
about  her  own  domestic  unhappiness. 

Now  the  portion  of  this  conversation  that  the 
story  is  concerned  with  came  somewhere  near  the 
middle  of  it,  and  was  as  follows: 


A  LIKELY  STORY  241 

"  I  think  you  said  you  had  met  my  cousin, 
Volumnia  Bax  ?  " 

"  At  Lady  Presteign's — yes,  of  course  I  did  t 
With  a  splendid  head  of  auburn  hair,  and  a — strongly 
characteristic  manner.  We  had  a  most  amusing 
talk." 

"  She  has  a  red  head  and  freckles,  and  is  interested 
in  Psychoeopathy."  An  analogue  of  homoeopathy, 
which  would  have  stuck  in  the  gizzard  of  the  Claren- 
don Press,  and  even  the  Daily  This  and  the  Evening 
That  would  have  looked  at  a  dictionary  about. 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  TJpwell  dubiously.  "  I  thought 
her  a  fine-looking  woman — a — a  Lifeguardswornan, 
don't  you  know!  And  her  nose  carries  her  pince- 
nez  without  her  having  to  pincer  her  nez,  which 
makes  all  the  difference.  She  talked  about  you." 

"  Oh,  did  she  ?  I  was  going  to  ask  if  she  did. 
What  did  she  say  about  me  ?  " 

"  You  mustn't  be  angry  with  her,  you  know !  It 
was  all  very  nice." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course !  It  always  is  very  nice. 
But — a — what  was  it?  You  will  tell  me,  won't 
you?" 

"  Certainly — every  word !  But  I  may  have  mis- 
taken what  she  said,  because  there  was  music — 
Katchakoffsky,  I  think ;  and  the  cello  only  found  he'd 
got  the  wrong  Op.,  half-way  through." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  telling  you  all  about  me  and 


242  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Reginald.  I  wish  she  would  mind  her  own  .  .  . 
well,  I  wish  she  would  Psychceopathize  and  leave  me 
alone." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Aiken ! — you  said  you  wouldn't  be 
angry.  And  it  was  only  because  /  mentioned  you 
and  talked  of  that  delightful  visit — of — of  ours  to 
the  Studio.  ...  Oh  no,  no! — there's  no  more 
news.  Not  a  word !  "  This  came  in  answer  to  a 
look.  Madeline  went  on  quickly,  glad  to  say  no  more 
of  her  own  grief.  "  It  was  not  till  I  myself  men- 
tioned you  that  she  said,  '  I  suppose  you  know  they've 
split?'" 

"  That  was  a  nice  way  to  put  it.     Split !  " 

"  Yes — it  looked  as  if  it  was  sea-anemones,  and 
each  of  you  had  split,  making  four."  Miss  Upwell 
then  gave  a  very  truthful  report  of  what  Miss  Bax 
had  told  her,  neither  confounding  the  persons,  nor 
dividing  the  substance  of  her  narrative. 

When  she  had  finished,  Mrs.  Aiken  began  to  say, 

"  I  suppose "  and  underwent  a  restless  pause. 

Then,  as  her  hostess  waited  wistfully  for  more,  she 
went  on,  "  I  suppose  she  said  I  ought  to  go  back 
and  be  a  dutiful  wife.  I'm  quite  sick  and  tired  of 
the  way  people  talk." 

"  She  said  " — thus  Madeline,  a  little  timidly — 
"  that  she  thought  you  had  acted  under  a  grievous 
misapprehension.  That  was  what  she  said — '  A 
grievous  misapprehension.' ' 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  243 

"  Oh  yes ! — and  I'm  to  go  back  and  beg  pardon. 
/  know.  .  .  .  But  that  reminds  me.  ..."  She 
reined  up. 

"  Eeminds  you.  .  .  .  ?  "  Madeline  paused,  for 
her  to  start  again. 

"  Eeminds  me  that  I've  never  thanked  you  for  the 
photograph." 

"  I  thought  you  might  like  it.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  fond  I  am  of  the  picture,  myself.  I  wanted  to 
get  you  to  be  more  lenient  to  the  poor  girl.  It  is  the 
loveliest  face ! " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  But  anyhow  it  was  most  kind 
of  you  to  give  it  me.  Let  me  see ! — what  was  it 
reminded  me  of  the  photograph?  Oh,  of  course, — 
Volumnia  Bax." 

"  I  was  wondering  why  you  said  '  reminded.' ' 

Now  Mrs.  Aiken  had  two  or  three  or  four  or  five 
faults,  but  secretiveness  was  not  among  them.  In 
fact  she  said  of  herself  that  she  "  always  outed  with 
everything."  This  time,  she  outed  with,  or  ex- 
ternalized— but  we  much  prefer  the  lady's  own  ex- 
pression— what  proved  of  some  importance  in  the 
evolution  of  events.  "  Oh,  of  course,  it  was  because 
of  the  .  .  .  but  it  was  such  nonsense !  "  So  she 
spoke,  and  was  silent.  The  cat  was  still  in  the  bag, 
but  one  paw  was  out,  at  least. 

Miss  Upwell  had  her  own  share  of  inquisitiveness, 
and  a  little  of  someone  else's.  "  Never  mind !  Do 


244  A  LIKELY  STORY 

tell  me/'  she  said,  open-eyed  and  receptive.  The 
slight  accent  on  "  me  "  was  irresistible. 

"  It  was  silliness — sheer  silliness !  "  said  Mrs. 
Aiken.  "  An  absurd  dream  I  had,  which  made 
Volumnia  say  it  was  evident  I  was  only  being  ob- 
stinate about  Reginald,  because  of  Science  and  stuff. 
And  so  going  back  and  begging  pardon  reminded  me. 
That  was  all." 

"  But  what  had  the  picture  to  do  with  the  dream  ? 
That's  what  /  want  to  know/'  said  Madeline. 

"  The  picture  was  in  the  dream,"  said  Mrs.  Aiken. 
"  But  it  was  such  frightful  nonsense." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  what  nonsense  it  was!  Do — 
do  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  can't  tell  you  what  an 
intense  interest  I  take  in  dreams.  I  do  indeed !  " 

"  If  I  do,  you  won't  repeat  it  to  anybody.  Now 
will  you  ?  Promise !  " 

"  Upon  my  word  I  won't.  Honour  bright !  " 
Thereon,  as  Mrs.  Aiken  really  wanted  to  tell,  but 
was  dreadfully  afraid  of  being  thought  credulous, 
she  told  the  whole  story  of  the  dream,  with  every 
particular,  just  as  she  had  told  it  to  Miss  Volumnia 
Bax. 

Her  hearer  contrived  to  hold  in,  with  a  great 
effort,  until  the  story  reached  "  Well — that's  all ! 
At  least,  all  I  can  tell  you.  Wasn't  it  absurd  ? " 
Then  her  pent-up  impatience  found  vent.  "Now 
listen  to  my  story !  "  she  cried,  so  loud  that  her 


A  LIKELY  STORY  245 

hearer  gave  a  big  start,  exclaiming,  "What — have 
you  got  a  story  ?  Oh,  do  tell  it!  I've  told  you  mine, 
you  know !  " 

Then  Madeline  made  no  more  ado,  but  told  the 
whole  story  of  Mr.  Felly's  dream,  omitting  all  but 
a  bare  sketch  of  the  Italian  narrative — just  enough 
to  give  local  truth. 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Aiken,  when  she  had  finished, 
"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  I  ought  to  go  back  and 
beg  Reginald's  pardon,  too." 

"  I  do,"  said  Madeline,  with  overwhelming  em- 
phasis. "  Now,  directly !  " 

"  But  you'U  promise  not  to  tell  anyone  about  the 
dream — my  dream,"  said  Mrs.  Aiken. 

That  same  afternoon  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken  had  been 
giving  careful  consideration  to  Diana  and  Actaeon, 
unfinished;  because,  you  see,  he  had  a  few  days 
before  him  of  peace  and  quiet,  and  rest  from  beastly 
restoration  and  picture-cleaning.  One — himself, 
for  instance — couldn't  be  expected  to  slave  at  that 
rot  for  ever.  It  was  too  sickening.  But  of  course 
you  had  to  consider  the  dibs.  There  was  no  getting 
over  that. 

However,  apart  from  cash-needs,  there  were 
advantages  about  these  interruptions.  You  came 
with  a  fresh  eye.  Mr.  Aiken  had  got  Diana  and 
Actseon  back  from  its  retirement  into  the  Studio's 


246  A  LIKELY  STORY 

picked  light,  to  do  justice  to  his  fresh  eye.  Two 
friende,  one  of  whom  we  have  not  before  seen  in  his 
company,  were  with  him,  to  confirm  or  contradict 
its  impressions. 

This  friend,  a  sound  judge  you  could  always 
rely  upon,  but — mind  you! — a  much  better  Critic 
than  an  Artist,  was  seated  before  the  picture  with 
a  short  briar-root  in  his  mouth,  and  his  thumbs  in 
the  armholes  of  a  waistcoat  with  two  buttons  off. 
The  other,  with  a  calabash  straining  his  facial 
muscles,  and  his  hands — thumbs  and  all — in  his 
trouser-pockets,  was  a  bit  of  a  duffer  and  a  stoopid 
feller,  but  not  half  a  bad  chap  if  you  came  to  that. 
Mr.  Aiken  called  them  respectively  Tick  and  Dobbles. 
And  they  called  him  Crocky. 

So  there  were  five  fresh  eyes  fixed  upon  the  picture, 
two  in  the  heads  of  each  of  these  gentlemen,  and  the 
one  Mr.  Aiken  himself  had  come  with. 

Mr.  Tick's  verdict  was  being  awaited,  in  consid- 
erate silence.  His  sense  of  responsibility  for  its 
soundness  was  gripping  his  visage  to  a  scowl;  and 
a  steadfast  glare  at  the  picture,  helped  by  glasses, 
spoke  volumes  about  the  thoroughness  of  its  source's 
qualifications  as  a  Critic. 

Mr.  Aiken  became  a  little  impatient.  "  Wonder 
if  you  think  the  same  as  me,  Tick  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Wonder  if  you  think  the  same  as  'im !  "  said 
Dobbles. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  247 

But  Criticism — of  pictorial  Art  at  least — isn't  a 
thing  to  hurry  over,  and  Mr.  Tick  ignored  these 
attempts  at  stimulus.  However,  he  spoke  with  de- 
cision when  the  time  seemed  ripe.  Only,  he  first 
threw  an  outstretched  palm  towards  the  principal 
figure,  and  turned  his  glare  round  to  his  companions, 
fixing  them.  And  they  found  time,  before  judgment 
came,  to  murmur,  respectively,  "  Wonder  if  he'll 
say  my  idea ! "  and  "  Wonder  if  he'll  say  your 
idear?" 

"  Wants  puttin'  down !  "  shouted  Mr.  Tick,  leaving 
his  outstretched  fingers  between  himself  and  Diana. 
And  thereupon  the  Artist  turned  to  Mr.  Dobbles 
and  murmured,  "  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  And  Mr. 
Dobbles  murmured  back,  "  Ah ! — what  did  you 
tell  me  ? "  not  as  a  question,  but  as  a  confirma- 
tion. 

"  What  I've  been  thinking  all  along !  "  said  Mr. 
Aiken.  Then  all  three  gave  confirmatory  nods,  and 
said  that  was  it,  you  might  rely  on  it.  Diana  was 
too  forward.  Had  Action  been  able  to  talk,  he 
might  have  protested  against  this.  For  see  what  a 
difference  the  absence  of  the  opposite  characteristic 
would  have  made  to  ActaBon ! 

Conversation  then  turned  on  the  steps  to  be  taken 
to  get  this  forward  Goddess  into  her  place  again. 
Mr.  Tick,  who  appeared  to  be  an  authority,  dwelt 
almost  passionately  on  the  minuteness  of  the  change 


248  A  LIKELY  STORY 

required.  "  When  I  talk  of  puttin'  down,"  said  he, 
"you  mustn't  imagine  I'm  referrin'  to  any  per- 
ceptible alteration.  You  change  the  tone  of  that 
flesh,  and  you'll  ruin  the  picture !  " 

His  hearers  chorused  their  approbation,  in  such 
terms  as  "  Eight  you  are,  Tick,  my  boy !  " — "  That's 
the  way  to  put  it!" — "Bully  for  you,  old  cocky- 
wax  !  "  and  so  on. 

Mr.  Tick  seemed  pleased,  and  elaborated  his  posi- 
tion. "  Strictly  speakin',"  said  he,  "  what  is  needed 
is  an  absolutely  imperceptible  lowerin'  of  the  tone. 
Don't  you  run  away  with  the  idea  that  you  can  paint 
on  a  bit  of  work  like  that,  to  do  it  any  good.  You 
try  it  on,  and  you'll  come  a  cropper."  This  was 
agreed  to  with  acclamations,  and  a  running  com- 
mentary of  "  Caution's  the  thing !  " — "  You  stick  to 
Caution ! " — and  so  on.  The  orator  proceeded, 
"  Now,  I  never  give  advice,  on  principle.  But  if  I 
was  to  do  so  in  this  case,  and  you  were  to  do  as  I 
told  you,  you  would  just  take  the  smallest  possible 
quantity — the  least,  least,  LEAST  touch — no  more! 
—of  ..."  But  Mr.  Tick  had  all  but  curled  up 
over  the  intensity  of  his  superlatives,  and  he  had  to 
come  uncurled. 

"What  of?"  said  Mr.  Aiken.  And  said  Mr. 
Dobbles,  not  to  be  quite  out  of  it,  "  Ah ! — what  of  ?  " 
Because  a  good  deal  turned  on  that. 

Mr.  Tick  had  a  paroxysm  of  decision.     He  seized 


A  LIKELY  STORY  249 

Mr.  Aiken's  velveteen  sleeve,  and  held  him  at  arm's 
length.  "  Look  here,  Crocky !  "  said  he.  "  Got  any 
Transparent  Oxide  of  Chromium  ?  " 

"  Yes — somewhere !  " 

"  Well,  now — just  you  do  as  I  tell  you.  Got  a 
clean  number  twelve  sable?  .  .  .  No? — well, 
number  eleven,  then  .  .  .  That'll  do! — dip  it  in 
Eenzine  Collas  and  give  it  a  rinse  out.  See  ?  Then 
you  give  it  a  rub  in  your  Transparent  Oxide,  and 
wipe  it  clean  with  a  rag.  What's  left  will  go  all 
over  Diana,  and  a  little  to  spare.  ..." 

"  Won't  she  look  green  ?  "  Mr.  Aiken  seemed  re- 
luctant. 

"  Rather !  But  you  do  as  I  say,  young  feller,  and 
ask  no  questions.  .  .  .  l  What  are  you  to  do 
next  ? ' — why,  take  an  absoli-yootly  white  bit  of  old 
rag  and  wipe  her  quite  clean  from  head  to  foot." 
His  audience  suggesting  here  that  no  change  would 
be  visible,  he  added,  "  That's  the  idear.  Don't  you 
change  the  colour  on  any  account.  But  you'll  see! 
Diana — she'll  have  gone  back !  " 

"  There's  somethin'  in  what  old  Tick  says,"  said 
Mr.  Dobbles,  trying  to  come  out  of  the  cold.  He 
nodded  mysteriously.  Mr.  Aiken  said  he'd  think 
about  it. 

Mr.  Tick  said,  "  I  ain't  advisin'.  I  never  advise. 
But  if  I  was  to — there's  the  advice  I  should  give !  " 
Then  he  and  Mr.  Dobbles  went  their  ways,  leaving 


250  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Mr.  Aiken  searching  for  his  tube  of  Transparent 
Oxide  of  Chromium. 

Now,  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken  always  knew  where 
everything  was  in  his  Studio,  and  could  lay  his  hand 
on  it  at  once.  Provided  always  that  you  hadn't 
meddled  and  shifted  the  things  about !  And  he  knew 
this  tube  of  colour  was  in  his  old  japanned  tin  box, 
with  the  folding  palette  with  the  hinge  broke.  It 
might  be  difficult  to  get  out  by  now,  because  he  knew 
a  bottle  of  Siccatif  had  broken  all  over  it.  But  he 
was  keen  to  make  Diana  go  back,  and  if  he  went  out 
to  get  another  tube  he  would  lose  all  the  daylight. 

So  he  sat  down  to  think  where  the  dooce  that  box 
had  got  put.  He  lit  a  cigarette  to  think  with.  One 
has  to  do  things  methodically,  or  one  soon  gets  into 
confusion. 

He  passed  before  his  mind  the  epoch-making 
bouleversements  of  the  past  few  years;  notably  the 
regular  good  clean-up  when  he  married  Euphemia 
four  years  since,  and  took  the  second  floor  as  well 
as  the  Studio  floor  he  had  occupied  as  a  bachelor. 

He  finished  that  cigarette  gloomily.  Presently  he 
decided  that  what  had  happened  on  that  occasion 
had  probably  occurred  again.  History  repeats 
itself.  That  box  had  got  shoved  back  into  the 
recess  behind  the  cassettone.  He  would  have  up 
Mrs.  Gapp,  who  came  in  by  the  day,  in  the  place  of 
Mrs.  Parples,  who  had  outstayed  her  welcome,  to  help 


A  LIKELY  STORY  251 

him  to  shift  that  great  beastly  useless  piece  of  lum- 
ber. Mrs.  Gapp  was,  however,  easier  to  call  over  the 
stairs  to  than  to  have  up.  The  number  of  times  y_ou 
called  for  Mrs.  Gapp  was  according;  it  varied  with 
your  own  tenacity  of  purpose  and  your  readiness 
to  believe  that  she  wasn't  there.  Mr.  Aiken  seemed 
easily  convinced  that  she  was  at  the  William  the 
Fourth,  up  the  street.  That  was  the  substance  of 
his  reason  for  not  shouting  himself  hoarse;  that 
is  to  say,  it  worked  out  thus  as  soliloquy.  He  went 
back  and  tried  for  the  japanned  tin  colour-box, 
single-handed. 

He  had  much  better  have  gone  out  to  buy  a  new 
tube  of  this  useful  colour,  as  in  five  minutes  he  was 
one  mass  of  filth.  Only  getting  the  things  off  the 
top  of  that  box  was  enough! — why,  you  never  see 
anything  to  come  near  the  state  they  was  in.  And 
if  he  had  only  rang  again,  sharp,  Mrs.  Gapp  would 
have  heard  the  wire;  only,  of  course,  no  one  could 
say  the  bell  wasn't  broke,  and  maintain  a  reputation 
for  truthfulness.  We  are  incorporating  in  our  text 
some  verbal  testimony  of  Mrs.  Gapp's,  given  later. 

But  Mrs.  Gapp  could  not  have  testified — for  she 
was  but  a  recent  char,  at  the  best — to  the  desolation 
of  her  unhappy  employer's  inner  soul  when,  too 
late  for  the  waning  light  of  a  London  day,  he  opened 
with  leverage  of  a  screwdriver  the  lid  of  that  japanned 
tin-box,  and  excavated  from  a  bed  of  thickened  resin 


252  A  LIKELY  STORY 

which  he  knew  could  never  be  detached  from  the 
human  hand,  or  anything  else  it  touched,  an  abject 
half-tube  of  colour  which  he  had  to  treat  with  a 
lucifer-match  before  he  could  get  its  cap  off.  And 
then  only  to  find  that  it  had  gone  leathery,  and 
wouldn't  squeeze  out. 

If  we  had  to  answer  an  Examination  question, 
"  When  is  Man  at  his  loneliest  ?  Give  instances," 
we  should  reply — unless  we  had  been  otherwise 
coached — "  When  he  is  striving,  companionless,  to 
get  some  sort  of  order  into  things;  working  on  a 
basis  of  Chaos,  feeling  that  he  is  the  first  that  ever 
burst  into  a  dusty  sea,  choked  with  its  metaphorical 
equivalent  of  foam.  Instance  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken, 
at  the  end  of  last  century,  in  his  Studio  at  Chelsea." 
Anyhow,  if  this  question  had  been  then  asked  of 
anyone  and  received  this  answer,  and  the  Examiners 
had  referred  back  to  Mr.  Aiken,  before  giving  a 
decision,  he  would  certainly  have  sanctioned  full 
marks. 

But  he  gave  himself  unnecessary  trouble.  One 
always  does,  in  contact  with  disinterred  lumber,  in 
which  a  special  brood  of  spooks  lies  hid,  tempting 
him  to  the  belief  that  this  flower-stand  only  wants 
a  leg  to  be  of  some  use,  and  that  that  fashionable 
armchair  only  wants  a  serpentine  segment  of  an 
arm  and  new  straps  under  the  seat  to  be  quite  a 
handsome  piece  of  furniture.  Yes,  and  new 


A  LIKELY  STORY  253 

'American  leather,  of  course!  Mr.  Aiken  had  not 
to  deal  with  these  particular  articles,  but  the 
principle  was  the  same.  He  foolishly  tampered 
with  a  sketching  umbrella,  to  see  if  it  would  open: 
it  certainly  did,  under  pressure,  but  it  wouldn't  keep 
up  nor  come  down,  and  could  only  be  set  right  at 
the  shop,  and  a  new  one  would  be  cheaper  in  the 
end.  Pending  decision,  a  large  blackbeetle,  who 
had  hoped  to  end  his  days  undisturbed,  fell  off  the 
underside  as  its  owner  opened  it,  and  very  nearly 
succeeded  in  getting  down  his  back. 

The  things  that  came  out  of  that  cavern  behind 
the  cassettone! — you  never  would  have  thought  it! 
A  large  can  of  genuine  Amber  Varnish  that  had  had 
its  cork  left  out,  and  wouldn't  pour;  the  Skeleton's 
missing  right  scapula,  only  it  wouldn't  hold  now; 
and,  besides,  one  never  wanted  the  Skeleton;  a 
great  lump  of  modelling-wax  and  apparently  in- 
finite tools — no  use  to  Mr.  Aiken  now,  because  he 
never  did  any  modelling,  but  they  might  be  a 
godsend  to  some  art-student;  folio  volumes  of 
anatomical  steel-plates,  that  the  engravers  had 
hoped  would  last  for  ever — a  hope  the  mice  may 
have  shared,  but  they  had  done  pretty  well  already; 
Mr.  Aiken's  old  ivory  foot-rule,  which  was  the  only 
accurate  one  in  the  British  Empire,  and  what  the 
dooce  had  become  of  it  he  never  could  tell;  plaster 
heads  without  noses,  and  fingers  without  hands, 


254  A  LIKELY  STORY 

and  discarded  fig-foliage,  like  a  pawnshop  in  Eden; 
things,  too,  for  which  no  assignable  purpose  appeared 
on  the  closest  examination — things  that  must  have 
been  the  lifework  of  insane  artisans,  skilful  and 
thorough  outside  the  powers  of  language  to  express, 
but  stark  mad  beyond  a  doubt.  And  a  Dutch  clock 
that  must  have  been  saying  it  was  a  quarter-past 
twelve,  unrebuked,  for  four  years  or  so  past. 

Mr.  Aiken  need  not  have  tried  to  pour  out  the 
Amber  Varnish;  where  was  the  sense  of  standing 
waiting,  hoping  against  hope  for  liquidation?  He 
need  not  have  hunted  up  a  pair  of  pliers  to  raise 
vain  hopes  in  the  scapula's  breast — or  its  equiva- 
lent— of  a  new  lease  of  life.  He  need  not  have 
tried  to  soften  the  heart  of  that  wax.  Nor  have 
turned  over  the  plates  to  see  if  any  were  left  perfect. 
Nor  need  he  have  reconsidered  the  Inexplicables,  to 
find  some  plausible  raison  d'etre  for  them,  nor  tried 
to  wind  up  the  Dutch  clock  with  sporadic  keys, 
found  among  marine  stores  in  a  nail-box.  But  he 
was  excusable  for  sitting  and  gloating  over  his  ivory 
foot-rule,  his  sole  prize  from  a  wrestling-match  with 
intolerable  filth — or  only  tolerable  by  a  Londoner. 
He  was  weary,  and  the  daylight  had  vanished.  And 
even  if  he  had  got  a  squeeze  out  of  that  tube,  he 
couldn't  have  used  it.  It  was  much  too  ticklish  a 
job  to  do  in  the  dark. 

He  sat   and  brooded   over  his  loneliness   in   the 


A  LIKELY  STORY  255 

twilight.  How  in  Heaven's  name  had  this  odious 
quarrel  come  about  ?  Nonsense  about  Sairah ! 
That  absurd  business  began  it,  of  course.  Serious 
quarrels  grow  out  of  the  most  contemptible  nonsense, 
sometimes.  Oh  no — there  was  something  behind; 
some  underlying  cause.  But  he  sought  in  vain  to 
imagine  one.  They  had  always  been  such  capital 
friends,  he  and  Euphemia!  It  was  true  they 
wrangled  a  great  deal,  often  enough.  But  come,  I 
say!  If  a  man  wasn't  to  be  at  liberty  to  wrangle 
with  his  own  wife,  what  were  we  coming  to  ? 

He  believed  it  was  all  the  doing  of  that  blessed 
old  aunt  of  hers.  If  she  hadn't  had  Athabasca  Villa 
to  run  away  to, — why,  she  wouldn't  have  run  away 
at  all!  She  would  have  snapped  and  grizzled  at 
him  for  a  time,  and  then  made  it  up.  And  then 
they  would  have  had  an  outing,  to  Folkestone  or 
Littlehampton,  and  it  would  all  have  been  jolly. 

Instead  of  which,  here  they  were,  living  apart 
and  writing  each  other  letters  at  intervals — for  they 
kept  to  correspondence — and,  so  far  as  he  could  see, 
letters  only  made  matters  worse.  He  knew  that  the 
moment  he  took  up  his  pen  to  write  a  regular  sit- 
down  letter  he  put  his  foot  in  it.  He  had  always 
done  that  from  a  boy. 

Probably,  throughout  all  the  long  summer  that 
had  passed  since  his  quarrel  with  his  wife,  he  had 
not  once  missed  saying,  as  a  morning  resolution  to 


256  A  LIKELY  STORY 

begin  the  day  with,  that  he  wouldn't  stand  this  any 
longer.  He  would  go  straight  away,  after  break- 
fast, to  Athabasca  Villa,  and  beard  Aunt  Priscilla 
in  her  den,  his  mind  seeming  satisfied  with  the 
resolution  in  this  form.  But  every  day  he  put  it 
off,  his  real  underlying  objection  to  going  being  that 
he  would  have  to  confess  to  having  made  himself 
such  an  unmitigated  and  unconscionable  Juggins. 
His  Jugginshood  clung  to  him  like  that  Siccatif  to 
his  fingers.  It  was  too  late  to  mitigate  himself  now. 
And  six  months  of  discomfort  had  contrived  to  slip 
away,  of  which  every  day  was  to  be  the  last.  And 
here  he  was  still ! 

If  he  had  understood  self-examination — people 
don't,  mostly — he  might  have  detected  in  himself 
a  corner  of  thought  of  a  Juggins-mitigating  char- 
acter. However  angry  he  felt  with  his  wife,  he 
could  not,  would  not,  admit  the  possibility  that  she 
believed  real  ill  of  him.  His  loyalty  to  her  went 
further  than  Geraint's  to  Enid,  for  he  imputed  to 
her  acquittal  of  himself,  from  sheer  ignorance  of  the 
sort  of  thing  anybody  else's  wife  might  impute  to 
anybody  else's  husband.  Because,  you  see,  he  had 
at  heart  such  a  very  exalted  view  of  her  character. 
Perhaps  she  would  not  have  thanked  him  for  fixing 
such  a  standard  for  her  to  act  up  to. 

He  sat  on — on — in  the  falling  darkness;  the 
little  cheerfulness  of  his  friends'  visit  had  quite  van- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  257 

ished.  The  lumber  he  had  wallowed  iii  had  grimed 
his  heart  as  well  as  his  garments.  He  would  have 
liked  Tea — a  great  stand-by  when  pain  and  anguish 
wring  the  brow.  But  when  you  are  too  proud  to 
admit  that  your  brow  is  being  wrung,  and  you  know 
it  is  no  use  ringing  the  bell,  because  Mrs.  Gapp, 
or  her  equivalent,  is  at  the  William  the  Fourth,  why, 
then  you  probably  collapse  and  submit  to  Fate,  as 
Mr.  Reginald  Aiken  did.  It  didn't  much  matter 
now  if  he  had  no  Tea.  No  ministering  Angel  was 
there  to  make  it. 

He  sat,  collapsed,  dirty  and  defeated,  in  the 
Austrian  bent-wood  rocking-chair.  What  was  that 
irruption  of  evening  newsboys  shouting?  Repulse 
of  some  General,  English  or  Dutch,  at  some  berg  or 
drift ;  surrender  of  some  other,  Dutch  or  English,  at 
some  drift  or  berg.  He  was  even  too  collapsed  to 
go  out  and  buy  a  halfpenny  paper.  He  didn't  care 
about  anything.  Besides,  it  was  the  same  every 
evening.  Damn  the  Boers !  Damn  Cecil  Rhodes ! 

The  shouters  had  passed — a  prestissimo  movement 
in  the  Street  Symphony — selling  rapidly,  before  he 
had  changed  his  mind,  and  wished  he  had  bought  a 
Star.  Never  mind ! — there  would  be  another  edition 
out  by  the  time  he  went  to  dinner  at  Machiavelli's. 
He  sat  on  meditating  in  the  gloom,  and  wondering 
how  long  it  would  be  before  it  was  all  jolly  again. 
Of  course  it  would  be — but  when? 


258  A  LIKELY  STORY 

A  sound  like  a  nervous  burglar  making  an  attempt 
on  a  Chubb  lock  caught  his  ear  and  interested  him. 
He  appeared  to  identify  it  as  Mrs.  Gapp  trying 
to  use  a  latchkey,  but  unsuccessfully.  He  seemed 
maliciously  amused,  but  not  to  have  any  intention 
of  helping.  Presently  the  sound  abdicated,  in 
favour  of  a  subterranean  bell  of  a  furtive  and 
irresolute  character.  Said  Mr.  Aiken,  then,  to 
Space,  "  Mrs.  Verity  won't  hear  that,  you  may  bet 
your  Sunday  garters,"  and  then  went  by  easy 
stages  to  the  front-door,  to  see — so  further  soliloquy 
declared — how  sober  his  housekeeper  was  after  so 
long  an  absence.  A  glance  at  the  good  woman  con- 
vinced him  that  her  register  of  sobriety  would  stand 
at  zero  on  any  maker's  sobriometer. 

She  said  that  a  vaguely  defined  community,  called 
The  Boys,  had  been  tampering  with  the  lock.  Mr. 
Aiken,  from  long  experience  of  her  class  at  this  stage, 
was  able  to  infer  this  from  what  sounded  like 
"  Boysh  been  'tlocksh — keylocksh — inchfearunsh." 
This  pronounced  exactly  phonetically  will  be  clear 
to  the  student  of  Alcoholism;  be  so  good  as  to  read 
it  absolutely  literally. 

"  Lock's  all  right  enough ! "  said  Mr.  Aiken, 
after  turning  it  freely  both  ways.  "  Nobody's 
been  interfering  with  it.  You're  drunk,  Mrs. 
Gapp." 

Mrs.  Gapp  stood  steady,  visibly.     Now,  you  can't 


A  LIKELY  STORY  259 

stand  steady,  visibly,  without  a  suspicion  of  a  lurch 
to  show  how  splendidly  you  are  maintaining  your 
balance.  Without  it  your  immobility  might  be 
mere  passionless  inertia.  Mrs.  Gapp's  eye  seemed 
as  little  under  her  control  as  her  voice,  and  each 
had  a  strange,  inherent  power  of  convincing  the 
observer  that  the  other  Avas  looking  the  wrong  way. 

"Me?"  said  Mrs.  Gapp. 

"  Yes — you !  "  said  Mr.  Aiken. 

Mrs.  Gapp  collected  herself,  which — if  we  include 
in  it  her  burden,  consisting  of  some  bundles  of  fire- 
wood and  one  pound  four  ounces  of  beefsteak 
wrapped  in  a  serial — seemed  in  some  danger  of  re- 
distributing itself  when  collected.  She  then  spoke, 
with  a  mien  as  indignant  as  if  she  were  Boadicea 
seeking  counsel  of  her  country's  gods,  and  said, 
"  M e  r-r-runk!  Sliober!" — the  last  word  express- 
ing heartfelt  conviction.  Some  remarks  that  fol- 
lowed, scarcely  articulate  enough  to  warrant 
transcribing,  were  interpreted  by  Mr.  Aiken  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  doing  a  cruel  injustice  to  a  widow- 
woman  who  had  had  fourteen,  and  had  lived  a  pure 
and  blameless  life,  and  had  buried  three  husbands. 
Much  stress  was  laid  on  her  own  habitual  abstention 
from  stimulants,  and  the  example  she  had  striven 
to  set  in  her  own  humble  circle.  Her  third  had 
never  touched  anything  but  water — a  curlew's  life, 
as  it  were — owing  to  the  force  of  this  example. 


260  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Let  persons  who  accused  her  of  drunkenness  look 
at  home,  and  first  be  sure  of  their  own  sobriety. 
Her  conscience  acquitted  her.  For  her  part  she 
thought  intoxication  a  beastly,  degrading  habit — 
that  is  to  say,  if  Mr.  Aiken  interpreted  rightly  some- 
thing that  sounded,  phonetically,  like  "  Bishley  grey 
rabbit."  At  this  point  one  of  the  wood-bundles 
became  undone,  owing  to  the  disgraceful  quality  of 
the  string  now  in  use.  Mrs.  Gapp  was  dissuaded 
with  difficulty  from  returning  to  the  shop  to  ex- 
change it,  but  in  the  end  descended  the  kitchen- 
stairs,  lamenting  commercial  dishonesty,  and  shed- 
ding sticks. 

The  Artist  seemed  to  regard  this  as  normal  char- 
ing, nothing  uncommon.  He  returned  to  the 
Austrian  bent-wood  chair,  and  sat  down  to  think 
whether  he  should  light  the  gas.  He  began  to 
suspect  himself  of  going  imbecile  with  dishearten- 
ment  and  depression.  He  was  at  his  lowest  ebb. 
"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  he — it  was  Space  he  was 
addressing — "  I  shall  just  go  straight  away  to-mor- 
row after  breakfast  to  Coombe,  and  tell  Mrs.  Hay 
that  if  she  doesn't  come  back  I  shall  let  the  Studio 
and  go  to  Japan." 

But  Space  didn't  seem  interested.  It'  had  three 
dimensions,  and  was  content. 

He  might  as  well  light  the  gas  as  not ;  so  he  did  it, 
and  it  sang,  and  burned  blue.  Then  it  stopped 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  261 

singing,  and  became  transigeant,  and  you  could 
turn  it  down  or  up.  Mr.  Aiken  turned  it  down,  but 
not  too  much,  and  listened  to  a  cab  coming  down 
the  street.  "  That's  not  for  here,"  said  he.  He 
had  no  earthly  reason  for  saying  this.  He  was  only 
making  conversation ;  or  rather,  soliloquy.  But 
he  was  wrong;  at  least  so  far  as  that  the  cab  was 
really  stopping,  here  or  next  door.  And  in  the 
quadrupedations,  door-slammings,  backings,  re- 
proofs to  the  horse,  interchange  of  ideas  between 
the  Captain  and  the  passengers  of  a  hansom  cab  of 
spirit,  a  sound  reached  Mr.  Aiken's  ear  which  ar- 
rested him  as  he  stood,  with  his  finger  on  the  gas- 
tap.  "  Hullo !  "  said  he,  and  listened  as  a  musical 
Critic  listens  to  a  new  performance. 

When  towards  the  end  of  such  a  symphony,  the 
fare  seeks  the  exact  sum  he  is  named  after,  and 
weighs  nice  differences,  some  bars  may  elapse 
before  the  conductor — or  rather  the  driver,  else  we 
get  mixed  with  omnibuses — sanctions  a  start.  But 
a  reckless  spendthrift  has  generally  discharged  his 
liability,  and  is  knocking  at  the  door  or  using  his 
latchkey,  before  his  late  driver  has  done  pretending 
to  consider  the  justice  of  his  award.  It  happened 
so  in  this  case,  for  before  Mr.  Aiken  saw  anything 
to  confirm  or  contradict  the  need  for  his  close 
attention,  eight  demisemiquavers,  a  pause,  and  a 
concussion,  made  a  good  wind-up  to  the  symphony 


262  A  LIKELY  STORY 

aforesaid,  and  the  cab  was  free  to  begin  the  next 
movement  on  its  own  account. 

He  discarded  the  gas-tap  abruptly,  and  pounced 
upon  his  velveteen,  nearly  pulling  over  the  screen 
he  had  hung  it  on.  "  That  drunken  jade  must  not 
go  to  the  door,"  he  gasped,  as  he  bolted  from  the 
room  and  down  the  stairs.  He  need  not  have  been 
uneasy.  The  jade  was  singing  in  the  kitchen — 
either  the  Grandfather's  Clock  or  the  Lost  Chord— 
and  was  keeping  her  accompanyist  waiting,  with  an 
intense  feeling  of  pathos.  Mr.  Aiken  swung  down 
the  stairs,  got  his  collar  right  in  the  passage,  and 
nearly  embraced  the  wrong  lady  on  the  doorstep,  so 
great  was  his  hurry  to  get  at  the  right  one. 

"  Never  mind !  "  said  Madeline ;  and  her  laugh  was 
like  nightingales  by  the  Arno  in  May.  "  Don't 
apologize,  Mr.  Aiken.  Look  here ! — I've  brought  you 
your  wife  home.  Now  kiss  her!  " 

"  You're  not  fit  to  kiss  anybody,  Reginald ;  but 
I  suppose  there's  soap  in  the  house."  So  said  Mrs. 
Aiken.  And  then,  after  qualifying  for  a  liberal  use 
of  soap,  she  added,  "  What  is  that  hideous  noise  in 
the  kitchen  ?  " 

"Oh,  that?"  said  her  husband.  "That's  Mrs. 
Gapp." 


CHAPTER  IX 

MADELINE'S  REPOET,  NEXT  MORNING.  CHARLES  MATHEWS  AND 
MADAME  VESTBIS.  HOW  WELL  MADELINE  HELD  HER  TONGUE 
TO  KEEP  HER  PROMISE.  AN  ANTICIPATION  OF  POST-STORY 
TIME.  HOW  A  DEPUTATION  WAITED  ON  MRS.  AIKEN  FROM 
THE  PSYCHOMORPHIC.  MR.  MACANIMUS  AND  MR.  VACAW. 
6EVARTIUS  MUCH  MORE  CORRECT  FOR  MISS  JESSIE  TO  LISTEN 
TO  THAN  THE  LAUGHING  CAVALIER.  OF  SELF-HYPNOSIS  AND 
GHOSTS,  THEIR  RESPECTIVE  CATEGORIES.  THE  MAD  CAT'S 
NOSE  OUTSIDE  THE  BLANKET.  SINGULAR  AUTOPHRENETIG 
EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  AIKEN.  STENOGRAPHY.  A  CASE  IN 
POINT.  NOT  A  PHENOMENON  AT  ALL.  HOW  MISS  VOLUMNIA'S 
PENETRATION  PENETRATED,  AND  GOT  AT  SOMETHING.  SUG- 
GESTION TRACED  HOME.  ENOUGH  TO  EXPLAIN  ANY  PHE- 
NOMENON 

"  FM  afraid  you  did  get  mixed  up,  darling,  this 
time.  But  I  dare  say  they're  all  right."  This  was 
Lady  Upwell's  comment  at  breakfast  next  morning, 
when  her  daughter  had  completed  a  narrative  of 
her  previous  evening's  adventure,  which  had  as- 
sumed, between  the  close  of  last  chapter  and  the  en- 
suing midnight,  all  the  character  of  a  reckless 
escapade.  Indeed,  it  had  long  been  past  that  hour 
when  the  young  lady,  who  had  wired  early  in  the 
evening  that  she  was  "  dining  with  Aikens  shall  be 
late,"  returned  home  in  better  spirits  than  she  had 
shown  for  months — so  her  mother  said  to  sympa- 
thetic friends  afterwards — to  find  her  Pupsey  getting 

263 


264  A  LIKELY  STORY 

uneasy  about  her,  and  fidgetting.  Because  that  was 
Pupsey's  way. 

Madeline's  parents  at  this  time  would  probably 
have  welcomed  any  diversion  or  excitement  for  the 
girl;  anything  to  take  her  mind  away  from  her 
troubles.  They  were  not  at  all  sure  about  these 
Aiken  people;  but  there! — they  would  have  wel- 
comed worse,  to  see  this  little  daughter  of  theirs 
in  such  spirits  as  hers  last  night.  Touching  the 
cause  of  which  they  were  a  little  puzzled,  as  she  had 
stuck  loyally  to  her  promise  to  tell  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Aiken's  dream  and  the  share  the  Italian  picture 
had  in  her  reconciliation  with  her  husband.  All  she 
said  was  that  she  had  persuaded  Euphemia  to  go  back 
to  Reginald;  she  having,  as  it  were,  borrowed  from 
each  the  name  each  called  the  other — in  a  certain 
sense,  quoting  it. 

"  Euphemia,  I  suppose,  is  Mrs.  Aiken  ?  "  said  her 
ladyship  temperately — with  a  touch  of  graciousness, 
like  Queens  on  the  stage  to  their  handmaidens  Cicely 
or  Elspeth. 

"  Euphemia's  Mrs.  Aiken,  but  he  calls  her  Mrs. 
Hay  as  often  as  not."  Perplexity  of  both  parents 
here  required  a  short  explanation  of  middle-class 
jocularity  turning  on  neglect  or  excess  of  aspirates. 
After  which  Madeline  said,  "  That's  all !  "  and  they 
said,  "  We  see,"  but  with  hesitation.  Then  she  con- 
tinued her  story.  "  It  was  such  fun.  7  knocked 


A  LIKELY  STORY  265 

at  the  door,  and  Reginald  came  rushing  out  because 
he  heard  Euphemia  outside,  and  clasped  me  in  his 
arms.  .  .  .  Oh,  well — it's  quite  true!  You  see, 
he  was  in  such  a  hurry  he  didn't  stop  to  look,  and  he 
took  me  for  Euphemia."  For  the  Baronet  had  laid 
down  his  knife  and  fork  and  remained  transfixed. 
But  a  telegraphic  lip-movement  of  her  ladyship  re- 
assured him.  "  This,"  it  said,  "  is  exaggeration. 
Expect  more  of  the  same  sort."  However,  his 
daughter  softened  the  statement.  "  It  wasn't  ex- 
actly negotiated,  you  know.  And  I  don't  think  it 
would  have  been  any  satisfaction  either,  because  he 
was  so  horribly  dirty,  Reginald  was." 

The  Baronet  completed  a  contract  he  had  on  hand 
with  some  kippered  salmon,  and  said,  before 
accepting  a  new  one,  "  Well — you're  a  nice  young 
woman !  "  But  he  added,  forgivingly,  "  Go  on — 
gee-up !  " 

The  nice  young  woman  went  on.  "  And  do  you 
know,  I  don't  believe  that  a  more  filthy  condition 
than  that  house  was  in — why,  Mrs.  Aiken  had  been 
away  ten  months!  And  there  was  a  drunken  cook 
singing  in  the  kitchen  all  the  while." 

"  You  are  an  inconsecutive  puss,"  said  the 
Baronet,  very  happy  about  the  puss  nevertheless. 
"  You  didn't  finish  your  sentence.  '  Filthy  condi- 
tion that  house  was  in  ' — go  on !  " 

"  Bother  my  sentence !     Finish  it  yourself,  Pup- 


266  A  LIKELY  STORY 

sey.  Well — Reginald  and  Euphemia  made  it  up  like 
a  shot.  Couple  of  idiots !  Then  the  question  was — 
dinner.  I  said  come  home  here,  but  they  said 
clothes.  There  was  some  truth  in  what  they  had 
on,  so  I  said  hadn't  we  better  all  go  and  dine  where 
Mr.  Aiken  had  been  going.  Because  I  didn't  call 
him  Reginald  to  his  face,  you  know !  " 

"  And  you  went,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so.  We  dined  at  Mezzofanti's 
in  Great  Compton  Street,  Soho — no,  it  wasn't;  it 
was  Magliabecchi's — no! — Machivaelli's.  And  I 
talked  such  good  Italian  to  the  waiter.  It  was  fun. 
And  what  do  you  think  we  did  next  ?  .  .  .  Give  it 
up  ?  "  Her  father  nodded.  "  Why — we  went  to  the 
Gaiety  Theatre — there !  And  we  saw  '  Charley's 
Aunt,'  and  we  parted  intimate  bosom  friends.  Only 
Euphemia  is  rather  fussy  and  distant,  compared  to 
Us,  and  I  had  to  stick  out  to  make  her  kiss  me." 
A  slight  illustration  served  to  show  how  the  speaker 
had  driven  a  coach-and-six  through  the  bosom- 
friend's  shyness. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Baronet.  "  All  I  can  say  is — • 
I  wish  I  had  been  there  with  you.  If  I  go  to  the 
play  now — there  I  am,  dressed  in  toggery  and  sittin' 
in  the  stalls!  Lord,  I  remember  when  I  was  a 
young  fellow,  there  was  Charles  Mathews  and 
Madame  Vestris  .  .  .  you  can't  remember 
them  , 


A  LIKELY  STORY  267 

"  Of  course  I  can't.  I  was  only  born  nineteen 
years  ago."  The  Baronet,  however,  added  more  re- 
cent theatrical  experiences,  but  only  brought  on  him- 
self corrections  from  his  liege  lady.  "  My  dear, 
you're  quite  at  sea.  Fancy  the  child  recollecting 
Lord  Dundreary  and  Buckstone!  Why,  she  wasn't 
born  or  thought  of !  " 

But  when  this  Baronet  got  on  the  subject  of  his 
early  plays  and  operas,  he  developed  reminiscence 
in  its  most  aggravated  form.  He  easily  outclassed 
Aunt  Priscey  on  the  subject  of  her  ancestors.  Her 
ladyship  abandoned  him  as  incorrigible,  without  an 
apology,  but  his  daughter  indulged  him  and  sat  and 
listened. 

All  things  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later,  and 
reminiscence  did,  later.  Then  poor  Madeline  ran 
down  in  her  spirits,  and  sat  brooding  over  the  war 
news.  It  was  only  a  temporary  sprint.  Reginald 
and  Euphemia  vanished,  and  Jack  came  back. 

Madeline  kept  all  this  story  of  the  talking  photo- 
graph to  herself.  To  talk  of  it  she  would  have  had 
to  tell  her  friend's  dream,  and  that  she  had  promised 
not  to  do. 

She  was  so  loyal  that  when  a  day  or  two  later  she 
met  the  formidable  Miss  Volumnia  Bax,  she  kept  a 
strict  lock  on  her  tongue,  even  when  that  lady 
plunged  into  a  resume  of  the  dream-story  as  she  had 


268  A  LIKELY  STORY 

received  it,  and  an  abstract  of  her  commentary  on 
it,  still  waiting  delivery  at  the  Psychomorphic. 

"  I  hoped  we  should  meet  at  Mrs.  Ludersdorff 
Pirbright's,"  said  she,  "  because  I  wanted  to  talk 
about  it.  Their  teas  are  so  stupid.  Ethel  Luders- 
dorff Pirtright  said  you  were  coining." 

"  Oh  yes — that  was  the  Unfulfilled  Bun- Worry. 
Mrs.  Aiken  came  in  to  see  me,  and  I  stayed."  Then, 
as  an  afterthought,  "  I  suppose  you  know  they've 
made  it  up  ?  " 

Admission  that  there  was  something  unknown  to 
her  did  not  form  part  of  Miss  Volumnia's  scheme 
of  life.  She  left  the  question  open,  saying  merely, 
"  In  consequence  of  the  advice  I  gave  my  cousin,  no 
doubt !  "  Madeline  said  nothing  to  contradict  this — 
all  the  more  readily  perhaps  that  she  was  not  pre- 
pared to  supply  the  real  reason.  She,  however, 
could  and  did  supply  rough  particulars  of  the  recon- 
ciliation, giving  Miss  Volumnia  more  than  her  due  of 
credit  as  its  vera  causa. 

That  lady  then  proceeded  to  give  details  of  her 
scientific  conclusions  about  the  phenomenon.  A 
portion  of  this  may  be  repeated,  as  it  had  a  good 
deal  of  effect  in  confirming  her  hearer's  growing 
faith  in  its  genuineness.  "  What  I  rest  my  argu- 
ment on,"  said  Miss  Volumnia,  touching  one  fore- 
finger with  the  other,  like  Sir  Macklin  in  the  Bab 
Ballads,  "  is  the  isolated  character  of  this  phenom- 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  269 

enon.  Let  the  smallest  confirmation  of  it  be 
produced  by  proof  of  the  existence  of  analogous 
phenomena  elsewhere,  and  then,  although  that 
argument  may  not  fall  to  the  ground,  it  may  be 
necessary  to  place  it  on  an  entirely  new  footing.  I 
would  suggest  that,  in  order  to  sift  the  matter  to 
the  bottom,  a  sub-committee  should  be  appointed, 
charged  with  the  duty  of  listening  to  authentic  por- 
traits to  determine,  if  possible,  whether  any  other 
picture  possesses  this  really  almost  incredible  faculty 
of  speech.  The  slightest  whisper  from  another  pic- 
ture, well  authenticated  by  a  scientific  authority, 
would  change  the  whole  venue  of  the  discussion. 
Pending  such  a  confirmation,  we  are  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  subjectivity  of  the  phenomenon  is 
indisputable." 

At  this  point,  Miss  TJpwell,  who  was  really  getting 
anxious  about  secondly — which  she  was  certain  the 
speaker  would  forget,  while  it  was  impossible  for  her, 
without  loss  of  dignity,  to  draw  one  forefinger  from 
the  other — was  greatly  relieved  when  the  with- 
drawal was  made  compulsory  by  the  offer  of  a  sally- 
lunn,  and  the  resumption  of  it  became  unnecessary, 
and  even  difficult.  For  this  entertainment  was  not 
merely  a  bun-worry,  but — choosing  a  name  at  ran- 
dom— a  sally-lunn  sedative,  or  a  tea-cake  lullaby. 

It  only  enters  for  a  moment  into  this  story  to  show 
how  powerfully  Miss  UpwelFs  belief  in  the  picture's 


270  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

personality  had  been  reinforced  before  the  time  came 
for  Mr.  Pelly  to  read  Professor  Schrudengesser's 
Florentine  manuscript. 

Perhaps  if  Miss  Volumnia  had  then  been  in  a  posi- 
tion to  lay  before  her  friend  the  results  of  a  subse- 
quent interview  with  her  cousin,  in  which  she  elicited 
some  most  important  facts,  this  belief  might  at  least 
have  been  suspended,  and  Miss  Upwell's  attitude 
towards  the  pardonable  scepticisms  of  her  father  and 
Mr.  Pelly  might  have  been  less  disrespectful.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact  Miss  Volumnia  only  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  these  facts  months  later,  when  she 
called  upon  Mrs.  Reginald  Aiken  with  the  Secretary, 
Mr.  MacAnimus,  and  Mr.  Vacaw,  the  Chairman  of 
the  Psychomorphic ;  the  three  constituting  a  Deputa- 
tion from  the  Society,  which  was  anxious  for  repeti- 
tion and  confirmation  of  the  story  before  appointing  a 
sub-committee  to  listen  to  well-painted  pictures.  This 
interview  may  be  given  here,  for  the  sake  of  those 
curious  in  Psychological  study,  but  its  place  in  the 
succession  of  events  should  be  borne  in  mind.  It  is 
really  a  piece  of  inartistic  anticipation. 

"  We  shouldn't  come  pestering  you  like  this, 
Cousin  Euphemia,"  said  Miss  Volumnia,  after  intro- 
ducing the  Deputation,  "  if  it  had  not  been  that  we 
have  so  much  trouble  in  getting  volunteers  to 
guarantee  the  amount  of  listening  which  we  consider 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  271 

has  to  be  gone  through  before  the  negative  con- 
clusion, that  pictures  cannot  talk,  is  accepted  as 
practically  established.  My  sister  Jessie  has  under- 
taken to  listen  to  any  picture  at  the  National 
Gallery  the  sub-committee  may  select,  provided 
that  either  Mr.  Duodecimus  Groob  or  Charley  Gals- 
worthy accompanies  her,  and  listens  too.  I  can 
see  no  objection  to  this,  but  I  prefer  that  they 
should  listen  to  Gevartius.  I  think  it  perhaps 
better  that  so  young  a  girl  should  not  hear  what 
the  Laughing  Cavalier,  Franz  Hals,  is  likely  to  say. 
Or  Charley  Galsworthy  either,  for  that  matter.  Mr. 
Duodecimus  Groob  is  a  graduate  of  the  University  of 
London.  ..." 

Mr.  Reginald  Aiken,  who  was  present  at  this 
interview,  looked  up  from  his  easel,  at  which  he  was 
re-touching  a  sketch  of  no  importance,  to  say  that 
he  knew  this  Mr.  Groob,  who  was  an  awful  ass;  but 
his  brother  Dolly  was  quite  another  pair  of  shoes, 
of  whom  the  World  would  soon  hear  more.  The 
interruption  was  rude  and  discourteous,  and  Mrs. 
Aiken  was  obliged  to  explain  to  the  Deputation  that 
it  was  quite  unnecessary  to  pay  any  attention  to  it. 
Her  husband  was  always  like  that.  His  manners 
were  atrocious,  but  his  heart  was  good.  As  for  Mr. 
Adolphus  Groob,  he  was  insufferable. 

"  Shall  we  proceed  to  business  ? "  said  Mr. 
MacAnimus,  a  piercing  man,  who  let  nobody  off. 


272  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  I  will,  with  your  permission,  run  through  Mrs. 
Reginald  Aiken's  deposition.    ..." 

"  I  never  made  any  deposition,"  said  that  lady. 

"  My  dear  Euphemia,"  said  her  cousin.  "  If  you 
wish  to  withdraw  from  the  statement  you  made  to 
me.  .  .  ." 

"  Rubbish,  Volumnia !  I  certainly  don't  with- 
draw from  anything  whatever.  Still  less  have  I  any 
intention  of  making  any  depositions.  If  we  are  to 
be  beset  with  depositions  in  everyday  life,  I  think  we 
ought  at  least  to  be  consulted  in  the  matter.  Deposi- 
tions, indeed !  " 

Mr.  Vacaw  interposed  to  make  peace.  "  We  need 
not,"  he  said,  "  quarrel  about  terms."  He  for  his 
part  would  be  perfectly  content  that  the  particulars  so 
kindly  furnished  by  Mrs.  Aiken  should  be  referred 
to  in  whatever  way  was  most  satisfactory  to  that 
lady  herself.  He  appeared  to  address  Mr.  Mac- 
Animus  with  diffidence,  almost  amounting  to  humil- 
ity, approaching  him  with  somewhat  of  the  caution 
which  might  be  shown  by  a  person  who  had  under- 
taken to  encumber  a  mad  cat  with  a  blanket  so  as  to 
neutralize  its  powers  of  tooth  and  claw.  Mr.  Mac- 
Animus  conceded  the  point  under  protest;  and  Mrs. 
Aiken  then,  who  was  not  disobliging,  consented  to  re- 
peat her  dream  experience,  each  point  being  checked 
off  against  the  formulated  report  of  her  first  state- 
ment, transmitted  to  the  Society  by  Miss  Volumnia. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  273 

It  is  creditable  to  that  lady's  accuracy  that  very  few 
corrections  were  necessary,  especially  as  the  first  nar- 
rator seemed  in  a  certain  sense  handicapped  by  doubts 
as  to  what  the  exact  words  used  were,  though  always 
sure  of  their  meaning.  Had  Mrs.  Aiken  understood 
any  Italian,  mixed  speech  on  the  picture's  part  might 
have  accounted  for  this.  As  it  was,  an  undeniable 
vagueness  helped  Miss  Volumnia's  classification  of 
the  incident  as  a  case  of  Self-hypnosis.  That  the 
Deputation  was  unanimous  on  this  point  was  soon 
evident. 

It  was  then  that  an  incident  came  to  light  that, 
at  least  in  the  opinion  of  Miss  Volumnia,  went  far 
to  establish  this  classification  beyond  a  shadow  of 
doubt. 

Mr.  Reginald,  who  had  been  at  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal his  derision  of  the  whole  proceeding,  allowed 
this  spirit  of  ridicule,  so  hostile  to  the  prosecution  of 
Scientific  Investigation,  to  master  him  so  com- 
pletely that  he  quite  forgot  the  respect  he  owed  to 
his  visitors,  and  indeed  to  his  wife,  for  she  at  least 
deserved  the  credit  which  is  due  to  sincerity,  even 
if  mistaken.  He  shouted  with  laughter,  saying 
did  anyone  ever  hear  such  glorious  Rot?  A  talk- 
ing picture — only  fancy!  Why,  you  might  as  well 
put  down  anything  you  heard  in  your  ears  to  any 
picture  on  the  walls.  One  the  same  as  another. 
Of  course  everyone  knew  that  Euphemia  was  as 


274  A  LIKELY  STORY 

full  of  fancies  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat.  Just  you 
leave  her  alone  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  dark  room, 
or  a  burying-ground,  and  see  if  she  didn't  see  a 
ghost ! 

"  That's  quite  another  thing,"  said  Miss  Volumnia 
and  Mr.  MacAnimus,  simultaneously.  And  Mr. 
Vacaw  added,  as  pacific  confirmation,  "  Surely — 
surely!  Ghosts  belong  to  an  entirely  different 
category."  A  feeling  that  Ghosts  could  not  be 
coped  with  so  near  lunch  may  have  caused  an 
impulse  towards  peroration.  It  was  not,  however, 
to  fructify  yet,  for  Mr.  MacAnimus  appealed  for  a 
moment's  hearing. 

"  With  your  leave,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing  Mr. 
Vacaw  as  if  he  was  The  Speaker,  "  I  should  like  to 
put  a  question  to  this  gentleman,"  meaning  Mr. 
Aiken.  Mr.  Vacaw  may  be  considered  to  have 
allowed  the  mad  cat's  nose  outside  the  blanket,  on 
sufferance. 

Then  Mr.  MacAnimus,  producing  a  memorandum- 
book  to  take  down  the  witness's  words,  asked  this 
question :  "  What  did  Mr.  Aiken  mean  by  the  ex- 
pression, l  anything  heard  in  your  ears  '  ?  " 

But  the  witness  was  one  of  those  people  who  be- 
come diffuse  the  moment  they  are  expected  to  an- 
swer a  question.  His  testimony  ran  as  follows, 
tumbling  down  and  picking  itself  up  again  as  it 
did  so.  "  Oh,  don't  you  know  the  sort  of  thing  I 


A  LIKELY  STORY  275 

mean;  a  sort  of  tickle — nothing  you  can  exactly 
lay  hold  of — not  what  you  think  you  hear 
when  it's  there — comes  out  after — p'r'aps  your 
sort  don't — it  goes  with  the  party — there's  parties 
and  parties — if  you  don't  make  it  out  without  a  de- 
scription, it's  not  in  your  line — you're  not  in  the 
swim." 

The  members  of  the  Deputation  looked  at  each 
other  inquiringly,  and  each  shook  a  negative  headr 
as  disclaiming  knowledge  of  this  peculiar  phenom- 
enon. They  were  not  in  the  swim,  but  could  all 
say,  and  did,  that  this  was  very  interesting. 

Mr.  MacAnimus  struck  in  with  perspicuity  and 
decision :  "  Allow  me.  Will  Mr.  Aiken  favour  us 
with  a  case  in  point?  Such  a  case  would  enable 
the  Society  to  ascertain  whether  this  phenomenon 
is  known  to  any  of  its  members."  He  concen- 
trated his  faculties  to  shorthand  point,  holding  a 
fountain-pen  in  readiness  to  pounce  on  a  clean 

V/l   *"V*.  ^  x 

memorandum  page,  virgin  but  for    li      J^  s-/"  K  ^| ,  or 

something  like  it,  which  meant,  "  Singular  auto- 
phrenetic  experience  of  Mr.  Reginald  Aiken  com- 
municated direct  to  Society  at  his  residence." 
Stenography  is  a  wonderful  science. 

Mr.  Aiken  complied  readily.  "  Any  number  of 
cases  in  point !  Why,  only  the  other  day  there  was 
Stumpy  Hughes,  sitting  on  that  very  chair  you're  in 


•276  A  LIKELY  STORY 

now,  heard  a  voice  say — where  was  Mrs.  Aiken? 
What's  more,  I  heard  it  too,  and  thought  it  was  Mrs. 
Gapp  in  liquor — in  more  liquor  than  usual.  I  told 
you  all  about  that,  Mrs.  Hay."  Mrs.  Gapp  was  a 
new  general  servant,  not  mentioned  heretofore. 

Mrs.  Euphemia  suddenly  assumed  an  air  of  mys- 
tery. "  Oh  yes,"  said  she.  "  You  told  me  all  about 
that.  I  understood." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  her  husband,  appealing 
to  the  company.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  females  might 
be  relied  on  to  cook  up  somethin'  out  of  nothin'  at 
all  ?  "  He  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  merely 
chose  this  form  of  speech  to  fill  out  his  share  in  the 
conversation. 

His  wife  was  indignant.  "  I  don't  know,"  she 
said,  "  what  nonsensical  imputations  you  may  have 
been  casting  on  women,  who,  at  any  rate,  are 
usually  every  bit  as  clever  as  you  and  your  friends. 
But  I  do  know  this,  because  you  told  me,  that  when 
that  happened  you  were  both  close  to  the  exact 
duplicate  of  the  very  photograph  you  are  now 
accusing  me  of  credulity  with,  and  it's  ridiculous — 
simply  ridiculous.  And  it's  off  the  selfsame  nega- 
tive. You  know  it  is." 

Mr.  Vacaw  deprecated  impatience.  A  new  avenue 
of  inquiry  might  be  opened  up  as  a  consequence 
of  this  experience  of  Mr.  Aiken's,  provided  always 
that  we  did  not  lose  our  heads,  and  allow  ourselves 


A  LIKELY  STORY  277 

to  be  misled  by  an  ignis  fatuus  of  controversy  into 
a  wilderness  of  recrimination.  Mr.  \racaw's  style 
drew  freely  on  the  vast  resources  of  metaphor  in 
which  the  English  language  abounds. 

Mr.  Aiken  followed  his  example  so  far  as  to  say 
that  he  couldn't  see  any  use  in  flaring  up,  and  that 
if  hair  and  teeth  were  flying  all  over  the  shop,  a 
chap  couldn't  hear  himself  speak.  As  for  the 
identity  of  the  photographs,  he  wouldn't  have 
mentioned  Stumpy 's  little  joke  about  where  the 
voice  came  from  if  he  had  thought  his  wife  was 
going  to  turn  it  into  a  Spirit  Manifestation  and 
Davenport  Brothers.  He  saw  no  use  in  such  rot. 
This  was  only  an  idea,  and  had  nothing  super- 
natural about  it. 

Mr.  Hughes's  little  joke,  whatever  it  was,  did  not 
reach  the  ears  of  the  story  at  the  time  of  writing — 
you  can  turn  back  and  see — but  Mr.  Aiken  heard 
and  remembered  it,  and  had  evidently  repeated  it 
to  his  wife,  who  had  beeti  comparing  notes  upon  it. 
Her  indignation  increased,  and  she  would  certainly 
have  taken  her  husband  severely  to  task  for  his 
levity  and  unreason,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
sudden  animation  with  which  Miss  Volumnia  cried 
out  "  Aha !  "  as  though  illuminated  by  a  new  idea. 
She  also  pointed  an  extended  finger  at  Mr.  Aiken, 
as  it  were  transfixing  him.  At  the  same  moment 
Mr.  MacAnimus  exclaimed  resolutely: 


278  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  Yes — stop  it  at  that !  '  Identity  of  the  photo- 
graphs.' Now,  Miss  Bax,  if  you  please !  " 

Miss  Volumnia  accepted  what  may  be  called  the 
Office  of  Chief  Catechist,  and  proceeded  on  the 
assumption  usual  in  Investigation,  that  she  was 
examining  an  unwilling  witness  with  a  strong  in- 
herent love  of  falsehood  for  its  own  sake. 

"  You  admit  then,  Cousin  Reginald,  that  on  this 
occasion  a  suggestion  was  made  that  the  voice  came 
from  this  photograph  ?  " 

Mr.  MacAnimus  nodded  rapidly,  and  said,  "  Yes 
• — keep  him  to  that !  "  and  conferred  a  moment  apart 
with  Mr.  Yacaw,  who  murmured: 

"  Yes,  yes — I  see  your  point.     Quite  correct !  " 

"It  was  Stumpy's  little  joke!"  said  Mr.  Aiken. 
"  Not  a  Phenomenon  at  all !  You'll  make  anythin' 
out  of  anythin'.  I  shall  tell  Stumpy,  and  he'll  split 
his  sides  laughin'  at  you." 

"  Pray  do,  Cousin  Reginald.  Only  let  me  ask  you 
this  one  question — what  was  the  exact  date  of  this 
occurrence  ? "  Miss  Volumnia  had  abated  the 
pointed  finger,  but  not  quite  suppressed  it.  Her 
colleagues  nodded  knowingly  to  each  other  and  each 
said,  "  That's  the  point !  " 

Mr.  Aiken's  answer  was  vague.  "  A  tidy  long 
while  ago,"  said  he.  "  Couldn't  say  how  long.  After 
Stumpy  came  back  from  Aunt  Jopiska's,  any- 
how." 


A  LIKELY  STORY  279 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  Three  or  four  months  ago.  More !  No — less ! 
Stop  a  bit.  I  know  what'll  fix  it.  That  receipt. 
Where  the  dooce  is  it  ?  "  Mr.  Aiken  had  a  paroxysm 
of  turning  miscellanea  over. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  looking  for,  Reginald  ?  "  said 
his  wife  forbear ingly.  "  If  you  would  tell  me  what 
it  is,  I  could  find  it  for  you,  without  throwing  every- 
thing into  confusion.  Why  can  you  not  be  patient 
and  methodical  ?  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Receipt  for  Rates  and  Taxes — oh,  here  it  is — 
seventh  of  November — that  fixes  the  time.  It  was 
the  day  before  that."  And  then  Mr.  Aiken,  in  the 
pride  of  his  heart  at  the  subtlety  of  his  identifica- 
tion of  this  date,  dwelt  upon  the  subject  more  than 
was  absolutely  necessary.  It  was  because  he  had 
talked — didn't  you  see? — to  a  feller  who  had 
sketched  a  plan  of  the  new  rooms  in  Bond  Street 
on  the  back  of  this  very  identical  receipt — didn't 
you  know? — telling  him  of  Stumpy  and  the  hear- 
ing the  voice,  the  day  before — didn't  you  see? — so 
that  fixed  the  date  to  a  nicety.  And  the  feller  was 
a  very  sensible  clever  penetratin'  sort  of  feller — 
didn't  you  see? — and  had  made  some  very  shrewd 
remarks  about  starts  of  this  sort. 

"  And  who  was  this  intelligent  gentleman  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Aiken,  not  entirely  without  superiority,  but 
still  with  forbearance. 


280  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Not  a  man  you  know  much  of.  Remarkable  sort 
of  chap,  though !  " 

"  Yes — but  who  was  he  ?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"Don't  see  that  it  matters.  .  .  .  Well — Dolly 
Groob,  then." 

"  Mis-ter  Adolphus  Groob  ..."  Mrs.  Aiken 
was  beginning,  and  was  going  to  follow  up  what  her 
intonation  made  a  half-expression  of  contempt,  by 
a  comment  which  would  have  expressed  a  whole  one. 
Was  it  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  all  the  fuss  was 
about  ? 

But  she  came  short  of  her  intention,  being  in- 
terrupted by  Miss  Volumnia,  whose  "  Aha !  "  threw 
her  previous  delivery  of  the  same  interjection  into 
the  shade.  "Now  we  are  getting  at  something!" 
cried  that  young  lady  triumphantly. 

"  Well,  what  does  that  mean  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Euphemia  scornfully.  "  Getting  at  something ! 
Getting  at  what  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Euphemia,"  said  her  cousin,  with  tem- 
perate self-command — she  was  always  irritating,  and 
meant  to  be — "  I  ask  you,  can  you  conscientiously 
deny  that  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  sat  next  you  at  Mr. 
Entwistle  Parkins's  lecture,  at  the  Suburbiton 
Athenaeum,  on  the  Radio- Activity  of  Space  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  what  if  he  did  ?  " 

"  We  will  come  to  that  directly,  when  you  have 


A  LIKELY  STORY  281 

answered  my  questions.  Can  you  deny  that  Mr. 
Entwistle  Parkins's  lecture  on  the  Radio-Activity 
of  Space  was  delivered  at  least  a  week  after  your 
husband  had  communicated  to  Mr.  Adolphus 
Groob  the  very  curious  experience  he  has  just 
related  ? " 

"  And  what  if  he  did.    .    .    .  ?  " 

"  One  moment — excuse  me.  ...  Or  that  your 
own  very  singular — I  admit  the  singularity — Pseudo- 
dream  or  self-induced  Hypnotism  was  subsequent  to 
this  lecture  ?  " 

"  It  was  in  January.     What  if  it  was  ?  " 

Miss  Volumnia  turned  with  an  air  of  subdued 
triumph  to  the  other  members  of  the  Deputation. 
"  I  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Vacaw — to  you,  Mr.  Mac- 
Animus.  Is,  or  is  not,  the  conclusion  warranted 
that  this  Pseudo-dream,  as  I  must  call  it,  had  its 
origin  by  Suggestion  from  the  analogous  experience 
of  Mr.  Aiken,  who  had  by  his  own  showing  narrated 
it  to  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  ?  " 

"  But  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob  never  said  a  single 
word  to  me  about  it.  So  there  !  "  Thus  Mrs.  Aiken 
with  emphasis  so  distributed  as  to  make  her  speech  al- 
most truculent. 

Miss  Volumnia's  reply  was  cold  and  firm.  "  You 
admit,  Cousin  Euphemia,  that  Mr.  Adolphus  Groob 
sat  next  to  you  throughout  that  lecture  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     What  of  that  ?  " 


282  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

"  Are  you  prepared  to  make  oath  that  no  part 
of  your  conversation  turned  on  Psychic  sub- 
jects ?  " 

"  He  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,  and  said  we  were  on  the  brink  of 
great  discoveries.  But  I  won't  talk  to  you  if  you 
go  on  about  being  prepared  to  make  oath,  like  a 
witness-box." 

Mr.  Aiken,  perhaps  with  a  mistaken  idea  of 
averting  heated  controversy,  interposed,  saying: 
"  Cert'nly  Dolly  Groob  did  say  he'd  met  the  missus 
at  a  beastly  place  that  stunk  of  gas  out  Coombe 
way,  and  that  she  conversed  very  intelligibly — no, 
intelligently — on  subjects.  ..." 

Miss  Yolumnia  interrupted,  although  the  speaker 
had  to  all  seeming  scarcely  finished  his  sentence. 
"  That  is  tantamount,"  she  said,  "  to  an  admission 
that  they  had  been  talking  on  subjects.  What  sub- 
jects?" 

"  Sort  of  subjects  they  were  talkin'  on,  I  s'pose," 
said  he  evasively. 

"  Very  well,  Reginald,"  said  his  wife  indignantly. 
"  If  you  are  going  over  to  their  side,  I  give  up,  and 
I  shan't  talk  at  all."  And  she  held  to  this  resolu- 
tion, which  tended  to  put  an  end  to  the  conversa- 
tion, until  the  Deputation  took  its  leave,  shaking 
its  heads  and  making  dubious  sounds  within  its 
closed  lips.  We  were  on  very  insecure  ground,  and 


A  LIKELY  STORY  283 

things  had  very  doubtful  complexions,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

"  What  a  parcel  of  fools  they  were,"  said  the 
lady  when  they  had  departed,  "  not  to  ask  about 
what  the  old  gentleman  dreamed  at  Madeline's? 
That  was  first  hand  from  the  original  picture.  I 
really  do  think  one  cannot  depend  on  photographs." 

"  Must  make  a  difference,  I  should  say.  Don't 
pretend  to  understand  the  subject."  Thus  the 
Artist,  absorbed  again  in  retouching  the  sketch  of 
no  importance.  And  do  you  know,  he  seemed 
rather  to  make  a  parade  of  his  indifference.  In 
which  he  was  very  like  people  one  meets  at  Mani- 
festations, only  scarcely  so  bad.  For  a  many  of 
them,  face  to  face  wTith  what  they  are  pretending 
to  think  their  own  post-mortem,  remain  unimpressed, 
and  cut  jokes.  Then  of  course  we  have  to  remember 
that  it  is  usually  a  paid  Medium — that  may  make 
a  difference. 

We  think,  however,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  had  Miss 
Volmnnia,  when  she  conversed  with  Miss  Upwell  at 
the  second,  or  fulfilled,  Bun-Worry,  been  in  pos- 
session of  the  facts  elicited  at  this  interview,  she 
might  have  detailed  them  so  as  to  induce  in  that 
young  lady's  mind  a  more  lenient  attitude  towards 
the  incredulity  of  her  father  and  Mr.  Felly  about 
the  picture.  As  it  was — and  it  is  very  necessary 
to  bear  this  in  mind  in  reading  what  remains  to  be 


284  A  LIKELY  STORY 

told — this  interview  had  not  then  taken  place,  and 
did  not  in  fact  come  about  till  nearly  two  months 
later,  when  the  compiling  of  the  Society's  Quarterly 
Report  made  the  adoption  of  a  definite  attitude 
towards  the  Picture  Story  necessary. 


CHAPTER  X 

HOW  MR.  FELLY,  SUBJECT  TO  INTERRUPTION,  READ  ALOUD  A 
TRANSLATION  FROM  ITALIAN.  WHO  WAS  THE  OLD  DEVIL? 
WHO  WAS  THE  DUCHESS  A?  OF  THE  NARRATOR'S  INCARCERA- 
TION. OF  HIS  INCREDIBLE  ESCAPE.  WHOSE  HORSE  WAS  THAT 
IN  THE  AVENUE?  HOW  MR.  PELLY  READ  FASTER.  WAS 
UGUCCIO  KILLED?  SIR  STOPLEIGH  SCANDALIZED.  BUT  THEN 
IT  WAS  THE  MIDDLE  AGES — ONE  OF  THEM,  ANYHOW!  HOW 
ONLY  DUCHESSES  KNOW  IF  DUKES  ARE  ASLEEP.  OF  THE 
BONE  MR.  PELLY  PICKED  WITH  MADELINE.  BUT  WHAT  BE- 
COMES OF  UNCONSCIOUS  CEREBRATION?  AMBROISE  PARE. 
MARTA'S  LITTLE  KNIFE.  LOVE  WAS  NOT  UNKNOWN  IN  THE 
MIDDLE  AGES.  THE  END  OF  THE  MANUSCRIPT.  BUT  SIR 
STOPLEIGH  WENT  OUT  TO  SEE  A  VISITOR,  IN  THE  MIDDLE. 
HOW  MADELINE  TURNED  WHITE,  AND  WENT  SUDDENLY  TO 
BED.  WHAT  WAS  IT  ALL  ABOUT?  SEVENTY-SEVEN  COULD 

WAIT 

OF  course  you  recollect  that  Mr.  Pelly,  when  he 
came  back  from  his  great-grandniece's  wedding  at 
Cowcester,  was  to  read  the  manuscript  Professor 
Schrudengesser  had  sent  him  from  Florence,  which 
had  been  the  probable  cause  of  all  that  fantastic 
dream-story  he  wrote  out  so  cleverly  from  memory? 
Dear  Uncle  Christopher ! — how  lucky  he  should 
recollect  it  all  like  that!  Especially  now  that  it  had 
all  turned  out  real,  because  where  was  the  use  of 
denying  it  after  Mrs.  Aiken  had  heard  the  photo- 
graph speak,  too?  If  a  mere  photograph  could 

285 


286  A  LIKELY  STORY 

make  itself  audible,  of  course  a  picture  could — the 
original ! 

Mr.  Felly's  reading  of  Professor  Schrudengesser's 
translation  of  the  Florentine  manuscript  was  fixed 
for  the  evening  after  Madeline's  return  to  Surley 
Stakes.  Uncle  Christopher  dined  alone  with  his 
adopted  niece  and  her  parents,  after  which  he  was 
to  read  the  manuscript  aloud  in  the  library  where 
the  picture  was  hanging.  This  was  a  sine  qua  non 
to  Madeline.  The  picture  simply  must  hear  that 
story.  But  of  course  she  said  nothing  of  the  reasons 
of  her  increased  curiosity  on  this  point  to  anyone, 
not  even  to  Mr.  Pelly  himself. 

Behold,  therefore,  the  family  and  the  old  gentle- 
man settling  down  to  enjoy  the  manuscript  before 
the  picture  and  the  log-fire  beneath  it.  The  reader 
preliminarizes,  of  course;  wavering,  to  do  justice  to 
his  impending  start. 

"  Now,  Uncle  Christopher  dear,  don't  talk,  but 
begin  reading,  and  let's  hear  the  picture-story."  So 
spoke  Miss  Madeline  when  she  thought  Mr.  Pelly  had 
hesitated  long  enough. 

But  this  did  not  accelerate  matters,  for  the  old 
gentleman,  perceiving  that  her  perusal  of  his  dream- 
narrative  had  landed  her  somehow  in  the  conclusion 
that  the  picture  and  the  manuscript  must  be  con- 
nected, felt  bound  to  enter  his  protest  against  any 
such  rash  assumption.  "  We  must  bear  in  mind,"  he 


A  LIKELY  STORY  287 

said,  "  that  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  connect  this 
manuscript  with  that  picture  over  the  chiinneypiece 
except  the  name  Raimondi.  And  although  the  pic- 
ture was  certainly  purchased  from  a  castle  owned  by 
a  family  of  that  name,  there  is  no  reason  whatever  to 
suppose  it  to  be  a  portrait  of  a  member  of  that  family. 
And  the  fact  that  a  portrait  of  a  lady  is  spoken  of 
— as  we  shall  see  directly — in  this  manuscript,  no 
more  connects  the  story  with  this  picture  than  with 
any  other  picture.  My  friend  Professor  Schruden- 
gesser,  although  it  wrould  be  difficult  to  do  justice 
to  his  erudition,  and  impossible  to  quarrel  with  most 
of  his  conclusions,  is  impulsive  in  the  highest  degree, 
and  no  one  is  more  liable  to  be  misled  by  a  false  clue. 
In  this  case,  however,  he  admits  that  it  is  the  merest 
surmise,  and  that  at  least  we  are  on  very  doubtful 
ground." 

Mr.  Pelly  felt  contented,  as  with  a  satisfactory 
peroration,  and  was  going  to  dive  straight  into  the 
manuscript  which  he  had  really  folded  to  his  liking, 
this  time.  But  the  Baronet,  to  claim  a  share  in  erudi- 
tion for  the  landed  gentry,  must  needs  look  weighty 
with  tightly  closed  lips,  and  then  open  them  to  say, 
"  Very  doubtful — very  doubtful — ve-ry  doubtful !  " 
And  this,  of  course,  provoked  his  daughter  to  a 
renewed  attitude  of  parti  pris,  merely  from  con- 
tradiction, for  really  she  knew  no  more  about  the 
matter  than  this  story  has  shown,  so  far. 


288  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Don't  go  on  shaking  your  head  backwards  and 
forwards  like  that,  Pupsey  dear,"  said  this  disre- 
spectful girl.  "  You'll  shake  it  off.  Besides,  as  to 
her  not  being  a  member  of  the  Raimondi  family,  isn't 
it  logical  to  assume  that  everybody  is  a  member  of 
any  family  till  the  contrary  is  proved?  At  least, 
you'd  say  it  on  your  side,  you  know,  if  you  wanted 
it,  and  I  should  be  frightened  to  contradict  you." 

This  provoked  incredulity  and  even  derision. 
After  which,  a  remark  about  the  clock  caused  Mr. 
Pelly  actually  to  begin  reading,  with  a  word  of 
apology  about  the  probable  imperfection  of  the 
translation.  Even  then  he  stopped  to  say  that  he 
hoped  he  had  clearly  stated  the  Herr  Professor's 
opinion  that  the  date  of  the  manuscript  would  be 
about  1559,  as  it  speaks  to  the  "  Duchessa  Isabella," 
to  whom  it  is  written,  of  "  your  recent  nuptials." 
He  added  that  no  doubt  this  lady  was  Isabella  dei 
Medici,  daughter  of  Cosimo,  the  second  of  the  name, 
who  in  1558  married  Orsini,  Duke  of  Bracciano. 

"  Never  mind  them,"  said  Madeline,  interrupting, 
"  unless  he  poisoned  her  or  there  was  something  ex- 
citing and  mediaeval." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pelly,  rather  apologetically, 
"  he  certainly  did  poison  her,  strictly  speaking. 
That  is,  if  Webster's  tragedy  of  Victoria  Corombona 
is  historically  correct.  If  you  get  a  conjurer  to 
poison  your  portrait's  lips,  with  a  full  knowledge 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  289 

that  your  wife  makes  a  point  of  kissing  them  every 
night  before  she  goes  to  bed.  ..." 

"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  /  like.     Go  on !  " 

"  Why  ...  of  course  you  place  yourself  in  a 
very  equivocal  position." 

"  Yes,"  said  Madeline,  "  and  what's  more,  it 
shows  what  pictures  can  do  if  they  try.  Of  course  he 
murdered  her.  What  are  you  looking  so  sagacious 
for,  Pupsey  ?  "  For  the  Bart.'s  head  was  shaking 
slowly.  He  showed  some  symptoms  of  a  wish  to  cir- 
cumscribe the  Middle  Ages — to  stint  them  of  colour 
and  romance. 

"  It  might  be  a  case  to  go  to  a  Jury,"  said  he 
grudgingly.  Whereupon  Mr.  Pelly  began  to  read  in 
earnest. 

" '  To  the  most  illustrious  Duchessa  Isabella, 
most  beautiful  among  the  beautiful  daughters  of 
her  princely  father,  queen  of  all  poesy,  matchless 
among  musicians,  mistress  of  many  languages,  to 
whose  improvisations  accompanied  on  the  lute  the 
stars  of  heaven  stop  to  listen.  .  .  .'  This  goes  on 
for  some  time,"  said  Mr.  Pelly. 

"  Skip  it,  Uncle  Christopher.  I  dare  say  she  was 
a  stupid  little  dowdy." 

"Very  likely!  H'm — h'm — h'm!  Yes — suppose 
I  go  on  here :  '  In  obedience  to  your  highness's 
august  commands  I  have  set  down  here  the  full 
story  of  my  marvellous  escape  from  prison  in  the 


290  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Castello  of  Montestrapazzo,  where  I  passed  a 
semestre  sotterraneo  ' — six  months  underground — 
the  Professor  seems  to  have  left  some  characteristic 
phrases  in  Italian.  I  won't  stop  to  translate  them 
unless  you  ask — shouldn't  like  to  appear  patronizing ! 
— '  now  nearly  thirty  years  since,  being  then  quite 
a  young  man — in  truth,  younger  than  my  son 
Gherardo,  who  is  the  bearer  of  this,  whom  you  may 
well  recognize  at  once  by  his  marvellous  likeness  to 
his  mother,  whose  affectionate  greetings  he  will 
convey  to  you  more  readily  than  I  can  write  them. 
For  when  I  look  upon  his  face  it  seems  to  me  I 
almost  see  again  the  face  I  painted  thirty  years  ago, 
the  sognovegliante  look ' — the  Professor  fancies  the 
writer  invented  this  word — dream-waking,  that  sort 
of  thing — '  the  sognovegliante  look  of  the  eyes,  the 
happy  laughter  of  the  mouth.  And,  indeed,  as  you 
know  her  now,  she  is  not  unlike  the  boy,  and  she 
changes  but  little  with  the  years.  For  even  the 
beautiful  golden  hair  keeps  its  colour  of  those 
days.  .  .  . ' " 

At  this  point  Madeline  interrupted :  "  But  that's 
the  picture-girl  down  to  the  ground.  How  can 
anybody  doubt  it  ?  Why,  look  at  her !  " 

Mr.  Pelly  was  dubious.  "  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't 
say.  There's  hardly  enough  to  go  upon." 

"  That's  exactly  like  a  scholarly  old  gentleman ! 
But,  Uncle  Christopher  dear,  do  just  get  up  a 


A  LIKELY  STORY  291 

minute  and  come  here  and  look !  "  Mr.  Pelly  com- 
plied. 

Generally  speaking,  we  thought  it  might  be  rash 
to  allow  ourselves  to  be  influenced  by  a  description ; 
it  was  always  safest  to  suspend  judgment  until 
after  something  else,  or  something  still  later  than 
something  else.  We  had  very  little  to  go  upon,  in- 
dependently of  the  fact  that  the  name  Raimondi 
connected  itself  with  both  the  portrait  and  the 
manuscript. 

"  Then  go  independently !  However,  let's  come 
back  and  get  on  with  the  story."  The  speaker  went 
back  to  her  place  at  her  mother's  feet,  and  Mr.  Pelly 
resumed. 

"  Where  were  we  ?  Oh — e  colour  of  those  days  ' 
— oh  yes ! — '  and  the  curvature  of  the  line  of  his 
nostril  that  is  all  his  mother's.  .  .  . ' ' 

Madeline  inserted  a  sotto  voce :  "  Of  course,  it's 
the  picture-girl !  "  The  reader  took  no  notice. 

"  ' .  .  .  That  he  will  prove  himself  of  service  to 
his  Excellency  the  Duke  I  cannot  doubt,  for  the 
boy  is  ready  with  his  pen  as  with  his  sword,  though, 
indeed,  as  I  myself  was  in  old  days,  a  thought  too 
quick  with  the  latter,  and  hot-headed  on  occasion 
shown.  But  him  you  will  come  to  know.  I,  for 
my  part,  will  now  comply  as  best  I  may  with  your 
wish,  and  tell  you  the  story  of  my  imprisonment 
and  escape. 


292  A  LIKELY  STORY 

" '  I  was  then  in  my  twenty-first  year ;  but, 
young  as  I  was,  I  already  had  some  renown  as  a 
painter.  And  I  think,  had  God  willed  that  I  should 
continue  in  the  practice  of  the  art  that  I  loved,  my 
name  might  still  be  spoken  with  praise  among  the 
best.  Yet  I  will  not  repine  at  the  fate  that  has 
made  of  me  little  better  than  a  poderista,  a  farmer, 
for  see  now  how  great  has  been  the  happiness  of  my 
lot!  Figure  it  to  yourself  in  contrast  with  that  of 
a  man — such  a  one  have  I  seen,  of  whom  I  shall  tell 
you — full  of  life  and  health,  all  energy  and  purpose, 
cast  into  a  prison  for  the  crime  of  another,  and 
unable  to  die  for  the  little  poisonous  hopes  that 
would  come,  day  by  day,  of  a  release  that  never 
was  to  come  itself.  His  lot  might  have  been  mine 
too,  but  for  the  courage  and  decision  of  the  woman 
who  has  been  my  good  throughout — who  has  been 
the  one  great  treasure  and  happiness  of  my  life. 
Yet  one  thing  I  do  take  ill  in  my  heart — that  the 
picture  I  painted  of  her,  the  last  I  ever  touched, 
should  have  been  so  cruelly  destroyed.' '  Mr.  Pelly 
paused  in  his  reading. 

"  The  Herr  Professor  and  myself,"  said  he,  "  are 
divided  in  opinion  about  some  points  in  connection 
with  this — but  perhaps  I  had  better  read  on,  and 
we  can  talk  about  it  after. 

"  '  For  it  was  surely  the  best  work  I  had  ever 
painted.  And  none  other  can  paint  her  now  as  I 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  293 

did  then.  But  I  must  not  indulge  this  useless  regret. 
Let  me  get  to  my  story. 

"  '  Know,  then,  that,  being  in  my  twenty-first  year, 
and  in  love  with  no  woman,  in  part,  as  I  think, 
owing  to  a  memory  of  my  boyhood  I  treasured  in 
my  heart — a  memory  I  did  not  know  as  Love,  but 
one  that  had  a  strange  power  of  swaying  my  life 
— that  I,  being  thus  famous  enough  to  be  sought 
out  by  those  who  loved  the  art,  whether  for  its  own 
sake,  or  to  add  to  their  fame,  was  sent  for  to  paint 
the  young  bride  of  a  great  noble,  the  Duke  Raimondi, 
at  his  villa  that  stands  out  in  the  plain  of  the  Arno, 
nearer  to  Pistoia  than  to  Firenze.  Thither,  then,  I 
go  with  all  speed,  for  the  Raimondi  was  a  noble  of 
great  weight,  and  not  to  be  lightly  gainsaid.  But 
of  this  young  bride  of  his  I  knew  nothing,  neither  of 
her  parentage,  nor  even  of  her  nationality;  indeed, 
I  had  been  told,  by  some  mistake  of  my  informant, 
that  she  was  by  birth  a  Francese.  You  may  well 
believe,  then,  that  I  was  utterly  astounded  when  I 
found  she  was  .  .  . " 

Here  Mr.  Pelly  paused  in  his  reading,  and  wiped 
his  spectacles.  "  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  he,  "  that 
we  come  to  a  gap  in  the  manuscript  here — a  hiatus 
valde  deftendus — and  we  cannot  tell  how  much  is 
missing.  There  is,  of  course,  no  numbering  of  the 
pages  to  guide  us.  Italians,  it  seems,  are  in  the 
habit  of  remaining  stupefied — a  phrase  I  have  just 


294  A  UKELY  STORY 

translated  was  '  ho  rimasto  stupefatto ' — on  the 
smallest  provocation,  and  the  expression  might  only 
mean  that  this  bride  of  the  Raimondi  was  an  Inglese, 
and  plain." 

"  We  are  plain,  sometimes,"  Madeline  admitted. 
"  But  what  geese  antiquarians  are !  You  should  al- 
ways have  a  girl  at  your  elbow,  to  tell  things.  Why, 
of  course,  this  young  person  was  the  Memory  he  had 
treasured  in  his  heart !  " 

"  I  should  think  it  very  likely,"  said  Mr.  Pelly, 
"  from  what  follows  later.  Only,  nothing  proves 
it,  so  far.  I  should  like  the  arrangement  you 
suggest,  my  dear  Madeline;  however,  we  must 
get  along  now,  if  that  clock's  right."  He  nod- 
ded at  one  on  the  chimneypiece,  with  Time,  made 
in  gold,  as  a  mower  of  hay;  then  continued 
reading : 

"  i  Oh,  with  what  joy  my  fingers  closed  on  that 
accursed  throat!  One  moment  more,  and  I  had 
sent  my  old  monster  whither  go  the  accursed,  who 
shall  trouble  us  no  further,  yet  shall  bear  for  ever 
the  burden  of  their  sins,  a  debt  whereof  the  capital 
shall  never  be  repaid,  even  to  the  end  of  all  eternity, 
Amen!  But  alas! — that  one  moment  was  not  for 
me,  for  the  knave  who  bore  the  mace,  though  he 
missed  my  head,  struck  me  well  and  full,  half-way 
betwixt  the  shoulder  and  the  ear;  and  though  it 
was  a  blow  that  might  not  easily  kill  a  young  man 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  295 

such  as  I,  yet  was  I  stunned  by  the  shock  of  it,  and 
knew  no  more  till  I  found  myself  .  .  . ' ' 

"  What  on  earth  is  all  this  about  ?  "  said  Madeline. 
"  Surely  the  wrong  page,  Uncle  Christopher." 

"  Very  wrong  indeed !  But  it  can't  be  helped. 
We  must  lump  it.  It  may  be  one  folded  page  miss- 
ing or  it  may  be  half-a-dozen;  we  have  no  clue. 
We  must  accept  the  text  as  it  is."  And  Mr.  Pelly 
went  on  reading: — 

"  ; .  .  .  Found  myself  on  the  back  of  a  horse,  go- 
ing at  an  easy  amble  up  a  hilly  road  in  mountains.  I 
was  bound  fast  behind  a  strong  rider,  of  whom  I 
could  see  nothing  at  first  but  his  steel  cap  or  morion 
— and  I  thought  I  knew  him  by  it,  the  basnet 
thereof  being  dinted,  as  the  man  whose  sword  my 
beloved  had  shed  her  blood  to  stop,  that  else  had 
ended  my  days  for  me  then  and  there.  For  in  those 
days,  Eccellenza,  I  had  such  eyes  to  note  all  things 
about  me  as  even  youth  has  rarely.  On  either  side 
of  us  rode  another  man-at-arms,  one  of  whom  I 
could  recognize  as  him  who  had  struck  at  me  with 
his  mace,  also  missing  of  slaying  me,  by  the  great 
mercy  of  God. 

"  '  I  had  little  heart  to  speak  to  either  of  them, 
as  you  may  think,  and,  indeed,  was  a  mere  wreck 
of  myself  of  two  hours  ago;  for  I  judged  of  how 
time  had  gone  by  the  last  smouldering  red  of  the 
sundown  above  the  dark,  flat,  purple  of  the  hills. 


296  A  LJKELY  STORY 

My  thirst  was  hard  to  bear,  and  the  great  pain  of 
my  head  and  shoulder,  shaken  as  both  were  by  the 
movement  of  the  horse.  But  I  knew  I  might  ask 
in  vain,  though  I  saw  where  a  wine-flask  swung  on 
the  saddle-bow  of  him  of  the  mace.  It  is  wondrous, 
Eccellenza,  what  youth,  and  great  strength,  and  pride 
can  endure,  rather  than  ask  a  gentilezza  of  an  enemy ! 
"  '  Thus,  then,  we  travelled  on  together,  my  guards 
taking  little  heed  of  each  other,  and  none  of  me 
in  my  agony;  seeming,  indeed,  to  have  no  care 
if  I  lived  or  died.  They  rode  as  fellows  on  a  journey 
so  often  do  when  they  have  said  their  most  on 
such  matters  as  they  have  in  common,  and  are 
thinking  rather  of  the  good  dinner  and  the  bed  that 
awaits  them  at  their  journey's  end  than  of  what 
they  pass  on  the  road,  or  of  what  they  have  left 
behind.  One  of  them,  the  knave  that  had  struck 
me  down,  who  seemed  the  most  light-hearted  of  the 
three,  would  at  such  odd  times  as  pleased  him  break 
into  a  short  length  of  song,  which  might  for  all  I 
know  have  been  of  his  own  making,  so  far  as  the 
words  went;  while  as  for  the  tune,  it  was  a  cadence 
such  as  the  vine-setter  sings  at  his  work  in  Tuscany, 
having  neither  end  nor  beginning,  and  suited  to  any 
words  the  singer  may  choose  to  fit  to  it.  Taking  note 
that  he  did  this  the  more  as  the  third  man,  whom  I 
had  not  recognized,  rode  on  a  short  distance  ahead, 
as  he  did  at  intervals,  I  judged  this  last  one  to  be 


A  LIKELY  STORY  297 

his  superior  in  command;  and  that,  if  I  could  find 
voice  for  speech  at  all,  my  best  chance  of  an  answer 
would  be  from  himself  and  not  from  this  superior, 
who  would  most  likely  only  bid  me  be  silent  at  the 
best,  even  if  he  gave  no  worse  response.  So  I  caught 
at  the  moment  when  he  had  ended  a  rather  longer 
cadence  than  usual,  judging  therefrom  that  my  speech 
would  reach  at  most  him  and  the  man  behind  whom  I 
myself  was  riding.  Where  was  I  being  taken  so 
fast,  I  asked,  and  for  what?  And  he  answers  me 
thus: 

"  '  "  To  a  good  meal  and  a  long  rest,  mio  figlio. 
To  the  Castello  del  bel  Riposo.  They  sleep  a  long 
night  at  that  albergo — those  who  ride  there  as  you 
ride.  I  have  ridden  more  than  once  with  a  guest 
of  his  Excellency.  But  there  has  always  been  a 
good  meal  for  each,  pasta,  and  meat,  and  a  flask  of 
vino  buono  puro,  before  he  went  to  rest."  Whereon 
he  laughed,  but  there  was  no  joy  for  me  in  that 
laugh  of  his.  I  speak  again. 

"  '  "  I  see  what  you  mean,  accursed  one !  That 
flask  of  wine  will  be  my  last  on  this  earth." 

"  i  "  You  speak  truly,  caro  mio  figlio.  It  will  be 
your  last  flask  of  wine.  You  will  enjoy  it  all  the 
more." 

"  '  "  You  are  a  good  swordsman ?  " 

"  '  "  I  am  accounted  so.  But  this  good  Taddeo, 
.whom  you  are  permitting  to  ride  in  front  of  you — 


298  A  LIKELY  STORY 

ho!  ho! — he  also  is  a  good  swordsman.  But  we 
may  neither  of  us  grant  what  I  know  well  you  were 
going  to  ask.  You  will  never  hold  a  sword-hilt 
again,  my  son,  nor  rejoice  in  face  of  an  enemy.  I 
could  have  wished  otherwise,  for  you  are  a  brave 
boy;  and  I  wrould  gladly  have  been  the  butcher  to 
so  fine  a  young  calf." 

n  t  «  YOU  are  quick  to  grip  my  meaning.  But  I 
could  have  outmatched  you  both  on  fair  ground. 
Now  listen!  You  have  a  goodwill  towards  me — so 
I  judge  from  your  words.  Tell  me,  then,  this: — 
how  will  they  kill  me  ? " 

"  '  "  I  have  never  said  they  would  kill  you,  my 
son.  I  have  said  only  this — that  you  will  have  a 
rare  good  supper  of  pasta  and  meat,  and  a  rare  good 
flask  of  red  wine,  before  you  go  to  rest.  And  let 
me  give  you  this  word  of  advice.  Before  you  go 
to  rest  at  the  Castello  del  bel  Riposo,  take  a  good 
look  at  the  sunlight  if  it  be  day,  at  the  stars  of 
heaven  if  it  be  night,  for  you  will  never  see  them 
again,  for  all  your  eyes  will  remain  in  your  head, 
even  as  now." 

"  '  Sometimes,  0  Illustrissima,  when  I  wake  in 
the  night,  it  comes  back  to  me,  that  moment.  And 
there  below  me  is  the  musical  tramp  of  the  horses' 
feet  on  the  bare  road,  and  I  hear  the  voice  of  my 
friend  sing  again  a  little  phrase  of  song — die  ognuno 
tirasse  I'  acqua  al  suo  mulino — and  I  heed  him  very 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  299 

little,  though  I  can  read  in  his  words  a  wicked  belief 
about  my  most  guiltless  and  beloved  treasure.  I 
see  the  sweet  light  where  the  sun  Avas,  through  the 
leaves  of  the  olive-trees  that  make  a  reticella  (net- 
work) against  the  sky;  and  the  great  still  star  they 
never  hide  for  long,  rustle  how  they  may!  But  I 
can  but  half  enjoy  the  light  that  is  dying,  and  the 
star  that  burns  the  more  the  more  it  dies;  for  the 
pain  is  great  in  my  shoulder  where  the  blow  struck, 
and  in  my  head  and  eyes,  and  my  body  is  sore  at 
its  bonds  and  stiff  from  being  held  in  one  position. 
And  yet  I  may  never  see  that  star  again — the  star 
we  called  our  own,  my  Maddalena  and  I,  and  made 
believe  God  made  for  us,  saying  "  this  star  I  make 
for  Giacinto  e  la  sua  sorellaccia  " — neither  that  star, 
nor  its  bath  of  light,  nor  the  sun  that  will  make  all 
Heaven  glad  to-morrow,  unseen  by  me.  For  I  can 
guess  the  meaning  of  what  my  friend  has 
said.  .  .  .'" 

Here  a  little  was  quite  illegible.  But  no  con- 
versation ensued  on  that  account,  both  reader  and 
listeners  wanting  to  hear  what  followed.  Mr.  Felly 
read  on: — 

"  l  Now  I  call  this  man  my  friend,  and,  Eccellenza, 
you  will  see,  as  I  tell  my  tale,  that  this  is  no  derisive 
speech.  I  think  that  what  showed  me  he  was  not 
all  hostility  to  me  in  his  heart  was  that  he  would — 
I  felt  sure — if  left  to  himself,  have  granted  the  boon 


300  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

I  would  have  asked  of  him,  and  fought  fairly  with 
me  to  the  death  of  one  or  other.  So  there  was  love 
between  us  of  a  soldierly  sort.  And  I,  too,  could 
see  how  it  had  grown.  For  I  had  half  suspected 
him  of  not  showing  all  the  alacrity  he  might  have 
done  with  his  mace  when  I  had  my  grip  on  the  Old 
Devil's  throat.  .  .  .'" 

Madeline  interrupted :  "  It's  perfectly  madden- 
ing! What  wouldn't  I  give  to  know  what  it's  all 
about?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently  the  Herr  Professor's  con- 
jectural history,"  said  Mr.  Pelly.  But  this  did  not 
satisfy  the  young  lady. 

"  Tell  us  now !  I'm  the  sort  that  can't  wait," 
said  she. 

The  benignity  of  Mr.  Felly's  face  as  he  replied  to 
her  was  a  sight  to  be  seen. 

"  The  Herr  Professor  thinks  it  is  quite  clear  that 
this  young  man,  on  his  arrival  at  the  Palace  of  the 
great  noble  whose  wife  he  was  to  paint,  fell  in  love 
with  some  girl  of  her  retinue,  possibly  having  recog- 
nized some  friend  of  early  childhood;  and  that  the 
Duchess  fell  in  love  with  him.  Naturally — because 
we  must  bear  in  mind  this  was  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
or  nearly — jealousy  would  prompt  assassination  of 
one  or  both  of  the  young  lovers.  ..." 

"But  who  was  the  Old  Devil?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know." 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  301 

"  Evidently  the  wicked  Duchess  herself." 

"  What  did  she  want  to  have  her  portrait  painted 
for  if  she  was  old  ?  " 

"  The  Herr  Professor  conjectures  that  the  reason 
our  young  painter  remained  stupefied  when  he  first 
saw  the  Duchess  was  that  she  turned  out  not  to  be 
young  at  all,  but  old  and  repulsive."  Madeline 
looked  doubtful.  "  Then  the  idea  was  that  the 
Duchess  personally  conducted  the  assassination  of 
the  girl — caught  the  two  young  people  spooneying, 
and  had  her  murdered  on  the  spot.  And  that  the 
young  man  thereon  went  straight  for  her  throat. 
After  which  she  naturally  felt  that  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  get  on  a  tender  footing  with  him,  as  she 
had  wished  to  do,  and  had  him  consigned  to  a 
dungeon  for  life." 

Madeline  disagreed.  "  ~No"  said  she,  "  I  don't 
think  the  Professor's  at  all  a  good  theory.  Mine's 
better.  Go  on  reading.  I'll  tell  you  mine  pres- 
ently." 

Mr.  Pelly  refound  his  place  and  went  on  reading. 

"  *  .  .  .  Had  my  grip  on  the  Old  Devil's  throat. 
And  also  I  had  felt  his  approval  in  his  hands  as  he 
helped  to  bear  me  away  from  the  Stanza  delle 
Quattro  Corone,  though  my  senses  failed  too  fast 
for  me  to  understand  what  he  said  to  his  comrade. 
Yet  I  thought,  too,  it  sounded  like  "Un  bel  giovane, 
per  Bacco!"  So  when  at  last  I  was  unbound,  and 


302  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

stood  in  the  forecourt  of  a  great  castle  in  the  middle 
of  a  group  of  men,  some  of  whom  had  torches — for 
it  was  then  well  on  into  the  night — and  dogs  that  I 
had  heard  barking  through  the  last  short  half-hour 
of  our  approach  up  the  steep  and  stony  ascent  to 
the  great  gates  that  had  now  clanged  to,  as  I  judged 
then,  for  my  last  passage  through  them  either  way 
— I,  though  stiff  and  in  pain,  and  in  a  kind  of  dumb 
stupor  as  I  stood  there,  could  still  resolve  a  little  in 
my  mind  what  might  even  now  be  done  to  help  me 
in  my  plight. 

"  '  I  caught  the  words  of  the  third  horseman- 
he  who  had  ridden  on  in  front — to  a  huge  bloated 
man  who  seemed  to  be  the  seneschal  or  steward  in 
charge  of  the  place,  who  went  hobbling  on  a  stick, 
seeming  dropsical  and  short  of  breath. 

"  l  "  We  have  brought  another  guest,  Ser  Ferretti, 
for  your  hospitality.  Sua  Eccellenza  hopes  you  have 
room;  good  accommodation — a  clean  straw  bed  or 
some  fresh-gathered  heather.  Sua  Eccellenza  would 
not  have  needless  discomfort  for  your  guests  at  the 
Castello.  A  long  life  to  them  is  the  brindisi  of  sua 
Eccellenza — sempre  sempre/'  That  is  to  say,  for 
all  time. 

"  '  And  then  the  fat  man  answered  wheezily,  "  It 
shall  be  done,  Ser  Capitano.  And  he  shall  sup  well 
and  choose  his  company ;  it  is  an  old  usage  and  shall 
be  observed."  He  then  turned  to  me  and  said,  with 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  303 

a  mock  reverence,  "  Whom  does  the  Signore  choose 
to  sup  with  before  he  retires  to  rest  ?  " 

"  1 1  turned  to  the  man  I  had  spoken  with  as  we 
rode,  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Sicuro" 
I  said,  "  with  none  other  than  Messer  Nanerottolo 
here."  This  was  my  pleasantry,  for  he  was  a 
monstrous  big  man,  but  not  ill-favoured.  I  went 
on,  "  I  owe  you  a  supper,  my  friend,  for  that  piccolo 
vezzeggiamento  you  have  given  me " 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  Thus  his  hearers,  in 
concert. 

"  A  little  caress.  I  don't  know  why  the  Professor 
has  left  some  of  the  Italian  words.  Nanerottolo 
means  a  very  little  dwarf  indeed,  and  he  could 
hardly  have  translated.  But  he  might  have  said 
caress  just  as  well."  He  resumed  reading: 

"  i  "  I  can  feel  it  in  my  shoulder  still."  At  this 
he  laughed,  but  said  again  I  was  a  bel  giovane,  and 
motto  bravo.  "  And  it  is  to  you,"  I  said,  "  that  I 
owe  my  supper  here  to-night."  But  his  Capitano 
gave  a  laugh,  and  said,  "  Piuttosto  a  quel  piccolo 
vezzeggiamento  die  tu  desti  alia  Duchessa " 

Here  the  reader  paused  to  interpret  the  Italian 
again,  which  was  hardly  needed ;  then  said,  "  There 
is  another  gap  in  the  manuscript  here,  and  it  is  a  pity. 
The  Professor  thinks  a  few  more  words  from  what 
followed  would  have  made  his  theory  a  certainty." 

"Why?"  asked  Madeline. 


304  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Because  '  the  caress  you  gave  the  Duchess  '  could 
only  mean  that  he  owed  his  supper  to  having  half 
strangled  the  old  Duchessa.  They  couldn't  mean 
anything  else  in  the  context." 

"  Couldn't  they  ?  Never  mind,  Uncle  Chris- 
topher! Go  on  now.  I'll  tell  you  presently." 
Uncle  Christopher  obeyed,  recommencing  as  before 
after  the  gap  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence : 

"  ' .  .  .  Prison  for  life  accords  ill  with  life  and 
hope  and  youth  and  the  blood  that  courses  in  its 
veins.  Whereas  despair  in  an  exhausted  frame, 
and  pain  and  hunger,  breed  a  longing  for  the  worst, 
and  if  it  may  be,  for  an  early  death.  Hence, 
Illustrissima,  my  good  supper,  which  was  given  un- 
grudgingly, while  it  made  me  another  man,  and  better 
able  to  endure  the  pain  left  from  the  blow  of  my 
friend  who  sat  at  meat  with  me,  gave  me  also  strength 
to  revolt  against  the  terrible  doom  that  awaited  me. 
Also,  hope  and  purpose  revived  in  my  heart,  and  I 
knew  my  last  word  with  the  world  of  living  men  must 
be  spoken  before  midnight;  for  this  was  told  me  by 
the  dropsical  Castellan,  with  an  accursed  smile.  So  I 
watch  for  the  moment  when  my  friend,  whose  name 
was  Attilio,  is  at  his  topmost  geniality  with  the  good 
wine,  and  then  I  speak,  none  being  there  to  hear, 
but  only  he.  I  speak  as  to  a  friend : 

"  '  "  You  love  the  good  red  wine,  Messer  Attilio, 
and  you  love  the  good  red  gold.  Is  it  not  true? 


A  LIKELY  STORY  305 

Which  do  yon  love  the  most  ? "  And  to  this  he 
answered  me,  "  Surely  the  good  red  gold,  Ser  Pittore. 
For  wine  will  not  purchase  all  one  asks.  There  is 
nothing  gold  will  not  purchase — enough  of  it !  " 

"  '  "  Listen !  Where  are  they  going  to  hide  me 
away  ?  Do  you  know  the  Castello  ?  " 

"  '  "  I  was  born  here.  I  can  tell  you  all.  There  is 
good  accommodation  in  the  sotterraneo.  It  is  ex- 
tended, but  it  is  not  lofty.  You  will  have  company, 
but  the  living  is  poor,  meagre.  I  have  said  that  you 
would  not  see  the  sun  again,  but  you  may!  For 
in  one  place  is  a  slot,  cut  slantwise  in  the  stone,  that 
the  guests  of  the  Duke  who  come  to  stay  may  not 
want  air.  Through  the  slot,  one  day  in  the  year 
only,  and  then  but  for  a  very  little  space,  comes  a  ray 
from  the  sun  in  Heaven.  In  the  old  days  of  the 
Warrior  Duke,  when  there  would  be  many  prisoners 
of  war,  they  would  count  the  days  until  the  hour  of 
its  coming,  and  then  fight  for  a  good  place  to  see 
the  gleam  when  it  came.  But  the  few  you  will  find 
there  will  have  little  heart  for  that,  or  anything 
else." 

"  '  "  Is  that  the  only  outlet  ?  " 

"  l  "  No !  There  is  the  door  you  go  in  by.  One 
stoops,  as  one  stoops  to  enter  the  little  prisons  of 
Venezia,  under  the  Eialto.  And  there  is  the  Buco 
della  Fame.  ..."  "That  is  to  say,"  interjected 
Mr.  Pelly,  "  The  Hunger  Hole,  or  Hunger  Pit." 


306  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  l  "  What  is  that?  "  I  then  asked. 

"  '  "  What  they  were  used  to  throw  bones  down, 
when  they  had  made  merry  and  sucked  them  dry, 
to  the  prisoners  below.  And  there  is  a  drain." 

"  '  "  How  large  is  it  ?  " 

"  '  "  Large  enough  for  the  rats  to  pass  up — no 
larger.  I  used  to  watch  them  run  in  at  the  outlet, 
when  I  was  a  youngster.  But  the  Buco — that  is 
large  enough  for  a  man  to  pass  up  and  down — a 
sort  of  well-hole.  Not  the  Ser  Ferretti  there;  he 
would  stick  in  it.  I  have  seen  it  all,  for  my  father 
was  the  gaoler  in  old  days." 

"  l  "  Listen  now,  Ser  Attilio!  You  want  the  good 
red  gold,  in  plenty.  And  you  shall  have  it  if  you 
do  my  bidding.  When  you  leave  this — are  you 
marking  what  I  say? — go  straight  to  la  Marta,  she 
who  attends  always  on  the  Duchessa,  and  say  to 
her  simply  this — that  on  the  day  I  regain  my  lib- 
erty, there  will  be  five  hundred  crowns  for  her.  Tell 
her  where  I  am.  And  for  this  service  to  me  you 
shall  receive  ..." 

Mr.  Pelly  stopped  reading  again.  There  was  an- 
other gap;  a  portion  of  the  manuscript  was  missing 
as  before.  He  remarked  upon  the  loss  to  the  reader, 
apparently,  of  the  whole  account  of  the  young  man's 
first  introduction  to  the  dungeon,  in  which  he  seemed 
to  have  passed  a  considerable  time — the  best  part 
of  six  months  as  far  as  could  be  made  out — before 


A  LIKELY  STORY  307 

we  are  able  to  follow  his  narrative.     He  then  read 
on,  without  comment : 

"  ' .  .  .  Day  and  night  alike  for  their  complete 
monotony,  though,  indeed,  we  could  distinguish  be- 
tween them  by  the  light  through  the  air-slot,  the 
only  ventilation  through  all  this  extent  of  vaulted 
crypt.  But  for  incident  and  change,  from  day's 
end  to  day's  end,  there  was  none  beyond  the  daily 
visit  I  have  spoken  of,  of  Uguccione  the  gaoler,  car- 
rying always  his  little  lamp  of  brass  and  a  basket 
of  coarse  black  bread,  and  a  pitcher  of  water.  Is  it 
not  strange,  Illustrissima,  that  a  man  should  live, 
should  go  on  living,  even  when  the  stupefaction  of 
despair  comes  to  his  aid,  without  light  or  movement 
or  the  breath  of  Heaven  on  his  face  ?  ^one  the  less 
these  others  that  I  told  you  of  had  done  so,  some 
more,  some  less ;  and  the  very  old  man  who  was  but 
as  an  idiot,  and  could  tell  nought  of  his  name  and 
his  past,  had  been  there  already  many  years  when 
Uguccione  first  took  the  prisoners  into  his  charge. 
He  was  a  merry,  chatty  fellow,  this  Uguccione,  and 
talked  freely  with  me  at  first,  and  told  me  many 
things.  But  he  said  I  should  not  talk  for  long,  for 
none  did.  See  now,  he  said,  he  would  speak  to  the 
old  Alberico,  and  never  an  answer  would  he  get. 
And  thereon  flashed  his  lamp  across  the  old  man's 
face,  and  asked  him  some  ribald  question  about  la, 
Giustina.  But  the  old  man  only  shrank  from  the 


308  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

light,  and  answered  nothing.  Who  was  la  Giustiria  \ 
I  asked.  Nay,  he  knew  not  a  whit !  But  he  knew 
that  the  former  gaoler,  old  Attilio,  from  whom  he 
took  the  keys,  had  told  him  that  if  he  would  enrage 
old  Alberico,  he  had  but  to  speak  to  him  of  la 
Giustina.  And  thereon  he  flashed  his  light  again 
in  the  old  eyes,  to  see  them  flinch  again;  and  gave 
me  black  bread  and  water,  and  went  his  way. 

" '  But  this  man  told  me  many  things,  before 
I,  too,  began  to  settle  into  the  speechless  gloom  of 
unvarying  captivity.  He  told  me  that,  even  now, 
the  great  Duke,  after  banqueting  in  the  hall  above, 
would  sometimes  for  his  mere  diversion  have  the 
trap  opened  at  the  top  of  the  Buco  della  Fame,  and 
throw  down  what  might  be  left  on  table,  except  it 
were  such  as  might  serve  for  the  cook  again,  or  to 
be  eaten  at  the  lower  table.  And  he  warned  me  to 
be  ready  and  at  hand  if  I  should  hear  any  sound 
from  above,  as  then  I  might  get  for  myself  the  best 
pick  of  the  bones  or  bread-crusts  that  might  come 
down  in  a  shower.  And  I  laid  this  to  heart. 

" '  And  now,  as  I  must  not  weary  your  Ex- 
cellency's illustrious  eyes  to  read  needless  details 
of  my  sufferings  in  my  imprisonment,  I  will  leave 
its  horrors  to  your  imagination,  saying  only  this, 
that  whatever  you  may  picture  to  yourself,  there 
may  easily  have  been  something  still  worse.  I  will 
pass  on  to  the  moving  of  the  trap-door  above  me. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  309 

"  '  Of  a  sudden,  in  what  I  thought  was  night,  but 
which  must  have  been  midday,  I  hear  a  sound  as 
of  hinges  that  creak  and  strain.  It  comes  from 
the  Buco  della  Fame;  and  I  can  hear,  too,  but 
dimly,  what  I  take  to  be  the  murmur  of  voices  in 
the  room  it  leads  to.  I  rise  from  the  straw  I  lie  on, 
and  move  as  best  I  may,  for  I  am  free  to  move  about 
only  slowly,  because  my  right  hand  is  manacled  to 
my  left  foot,  and  from  stiffness  and  weakness, 
towards  the  opening  of  the  hole  in  the  low  arch 
above  me.  I  can  touch  its  edge  with  my  hand.  I 
look  up  through  the  long  round  tube,  and  can  see 
its  length  now  by  the  size  of  the  opening  at  the  top. 
It  may  be,  as  I  reckon  it,  at  least  twenty  bracchie 
from  the  ground  I  stand  on. 

"  '  As  I  gaze,  a  little  dazzled  by  the  light,  I  hear 
plainly  the  voices  above  me  of  those  who  are  merry 
with  the  banquet.  And  then  a  face  looks  down 
and  darkens  the  opening  for  a  moment;  but  it  is 
only  like  a  dark  spot,  and  my  eyes  are  thwarted  by 
the  change  from  dark  to  light,  so  that  I  cannot 
guess  if  it  be  man  or  woman.  Then  I  hear  a  laugh 
from  above  that  I  compare  in  my  heart  to  the 
laugh  a  Saint  in  Heaven  might  give  as  he  looks 
down  a  narrow  shaft  that  leads  to  Hell,  and  rejoices 
in  his  freedom  and  the  great  Justice  of  God.  But  I 
myself  am  nowise  better  off  than  the  sinners, 
heretics,  and  Jews  that  are  consumed  in  fires 


310  A  LIKELY  STORY 

below,  yet  die  not.  Then,  as  I  think  of  this,  down 
comes  a  shower  of  what  seems  to  me  good  kitchen 
stuff.  Whereof  I  secure  a  piece  of  turkey  for 
myself,  and  of  capon  for  the  very  old  man;  but  he 
shall  have  his  choice,  if,  indeed,  he  can  eat  either. 
Then  come  other  prisoners  for  their  share,  from  afar 
off  in  the  crypt,  one  of  whom  I  had  never  seen,  so 
<lark  was  his  corner.  But  I  had  heard  him  moan 
and  mutter.  Only,  before  he  conies  with  the  others 
I  have  time  to  choose  somewhat  else  from  the  mess, 
always  sharing  as  I  think  fairly.  And  as  I  do  this 
I  am  taken  aback  by  a  sheet  of  written  paper  that 
has  fluttered  down  the  shaft.  And  I  have  caught 
it,  and  the  trap  above  closes  with  a  clang,  and  the 
voices  die  above,  and  the  darkness  has  come  again, 
and  the  silence. 

" i  Know,  Illustrissima,  that  the  eyesight  that 
lives  long  in  darkness  may  grow  to  be  so  keen  that 
not  only  the  outline  of  the  prisoner's  hand  that  he 
holds  before  him  may  be  seen  by  him,  but  even  the 
seams  and  lines  thereon,  by  which  may  be  known 
the  story  of  his  life  and  the  length  of  his  days. 
But  I  had  not  yet  come  to  that  perfection  of  vision, 
and  could  read  nought  of  the  paper  in  my  own  place ; 
for  all  that  the  crypt  was  then  at  its  brightest, 
it  being  late  midday,  and  the  gleam  from  the  slot 
at  the  far  end  strong  enough  for  me  to  see  dimly  the 
face  of  the  old  man  as  I  held  out  to  him  in  turn  the 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  311 

turkey  and  the  capon.  But  he  would  none  of  either, 
and  hardly  noted  what  I  did,  as  one  in  a  maze. 
So  in  the  end  I  leave  him  and  go  nearer  the  light,  to 
read  what  I  may. 

"  *  It  is  all  like  a  strange  dream  now.  But, 
lUustrissima,  as  I  look  back  to  that  moment,  what 
I  remember  is  a  huge  beating  of  a  heart  that  will 
not  be  still.  It  is  there,  and  a  gleam  of  light 
through  a  narrow  wall-slot  in  the  masonry  is  there; 
but  should  you  ask  me  how  I  read,  until  I  knew  by 
rote,  what  was  written  on  that  paper,  I  could  not 
tell  you.  Yet  I  can  repeat  every  word  now : 

"  '  "  This  is  to  be  destroyed,  should  it  reach  yon, 
before  the  next  round  of  1'Uguccione. 

" l  "  I  can  get  speech  of  you  through  the  slot. 
Watch  there  always  in  the  early  night.  It  must  be 
when  the  old  wretch,  my  master,  is  in  his  deepest 
sleep. 

"  ' "  Your  word  came  to  me  through  la  Marta, 
months  ago,  from  1'  Attilio.  They  are  keen  for  their 
reward.  Take  heart,  oh  my  dearest  one,  and  watch 
for  me. 

"  i  "  I  have  sat  at  the  board  of  my  tyrant,  and  each 
day  he  has  taunted  me,  and  pointed  down  to  the 
cruel  prison  of  my  darling.  Oh,  if,  after  all,  it  is 
a  lie  that  you  still  live !  Pray  God  Attilio  is  right, 
and  that  this  may  reach  you ! 

"  '  "  Oh,  my  beloved,  if  no  better  may  be,  at  least 


312  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

I  may  compass  that  you  shall  receive  a  tiny  flask 
of  poison;  whereof  I  too  may  take  a  fatal  draught, 
and  each  may  know  of  the  other  that  trouble  is  at 
an  end." 

"  l  She  had  signed  no  name,  but  none  was  needed. 
Hope  waked  in  my  heart,  for  I  knew  that 
Attilio  .  .  .'" 

Here  Mr.  Pelly  stopped  reading.  Another  hiatus ! 
"  The  loss  of  this  passage,"  said  he,  "  is  especially 
irritating,  as  it  might  have  supplied  a  clue  to  the 
identity  of  the  writer  of  this  letter.  The  remainder 
of  the  story,  as  I  recollect  it,  leaves  us  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  who  she  was,  though  I  am  inclined  to 
surmise,  from  the  use  of  the  expression  i  my  master,' 
that  she  was  a  young  person  attached  to  the  house- 
hold of  the  Duchess."  But  for  all  that,  Mr.  Felly's 
dream  about  the  picture  disturbed  his  memory. 
How  could  his  inner  consciousness  have  concocted 
it,  consistently  with  this  interpretation  of  the 
manuscript  ?  Still,  he  was  bound  to  "  dismiss  it 
from  his  mind,"  and  give  his  support,  provisionally, 
to  the  theory  of  the  Herr  Professor.  How  could 
he  cite  a  mere  dream  in  refutation  of  it?  So  lie 
"  dismissed  it  from  his  mind,"  and  when  Madeline 
said,  "  Never  mind  that  now,  Uncle  Christopher ! 
Do  go  on  and  see  if  it  doesn't  all  come  right  in  the 
end.  We'll  talk  about  who  she  was,  after,"  he  was 
rather  glad  to  resume,  without  further  comment. 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  313 

"  l  " .  .  .  I  am  hanging  in  mid-air.  Below  me  is 
an  awful  precipice.  If  Attilio  were  to  fail  me,  or  the 
rope  break,  what  should  I  do?  But  I  care  not;  I 
care  only  to  succour  my  darling  love,  in  his  dungeon 
underground.  Do  not  speak  again,  dear  love,  lest 
you  be  overheard  within.  Attilio  says  that  if  I 
whisper  to  you  through  the  little  opening  no  other 
prisoner  need  hear.  ...  I  will  tell  you  all.  At- 
tilio knew  from  his  boyhood  that  the  sfiata- 
toio  .  .  ."'" 

The  reader  stopped  to  explain  that  this  appeared 
to  be  a  word  equivalent  to  "  blow-hole  "  in  English, 
used  by  founders  for  the  opening  left  for  escape  of 
air  when  the  metal  is  poured  in. 

"  '  ".  .  .  The  sfiatatoio  opened  under  the  South 
Tower  in  the  wall  that  is  flush  with  the  precipice, 
that  one  may  see  the  sun  blaze  on  all  day  summer 
and  winter.  None  can  approach  it  from  below;  but 
Ser  Attilio  is  strong — oh,  the  strength  of  his  arms! 
— and  he  can  let  me  down  from  the  great  high  tower 
like  a  child,  and  then  I  hang  some  little  space  from 
the  window-ledge.  But  I  swing  a  little,  and  then  I 
hold  by  the  stonework,  and  I  am  safe  and  can  speak. 
It  is  bright  in  the  moonlight  and  still,  and  I  am 
speaking  to  my  darling.  Stretch  out  your  hand, 
my  love,  without  speech,  and  seek  not,  I  charge 
you,  to  hold  my  living  hand,  however  great  the  joy 
thereof,  but  take  from  it  the  file  I  have  made  shift 


314  A  LIKELY  STORY 

to  steal  from  the  armourer's  boy,  who  will  be 
beaten  for  its  loss,  but  whom  I  will  kiss  once 
and  more  for  his  reward.  Pazienza,  carissimo 
mio.  .  .  ."'" 

Mr.  Pelly  put  the  manuscript  on  his  knee,  and 
opened  his  hands  out  with  a  deprecating  action. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Madeline.  I  really  am!  But  I 
can't  help  it.  It  is,  as  you  say,  most  aggravating. 
Just  as  we  were  getting  to  the  interesting  bit !  But 
you  understand  what  happened  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  I  see  it  all  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff. 
And,  what's  more,  I  saw  the  very  place  itself — the 
great  precipice  and  the  Castle  wall  that  shoots 
straight  up  from  it.  An  awful  place!  But  what 
a  plucky  little  Duchess !  " 

"  Duchess  ?     I  don't  quite  follow " 

"  That's  because  you  are  so  stupid,  Uncle  Chris- 
topher." 

"My  dear  Mad!  Eeally !"  This  was  the 

Bart,  and  her  Ladyship.  Because  Mr.  Pelly  wasn't 
offended. 

"  Well,  it's  true  I  said  I  would  tell  Mr.  Pelly  all 
about  it,  and  then  I  didn't."  She  went  across  to 
Mr.  Pelly,  and  leant  over  him,  which  he  liked,  to 
get  at  the  manuscript.  "  Look  here !  Where  is  it  ? 
Oh — the  Old  Devil !  Yes — that  wasn't  the  Duchessa 
at  all!  That  was  her  horrible  old  husband,  the 
Duke.  And  she  was  the  Memory  of  his  boyhood, 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  315 

don't  you  see?  Oh,  it's  all  quite  plain.  And  my 
picture-girl's  her.  And  it's  no  use  your  talking  about 
evidence,  because  I  know  I'm  right,  and  evidence  is 
nonsense." 

"  It  certainly  is  true,"  Sir  Stopleigh  said,  "  that 
the  Castle  wall  is  exactly  as  Madeline  describes  it, 
for  I  have  seen  it  myself,  and  can  confirm,  her  state- 
ment." He  seemed  to  consider  that  almost  any- 
thing would  be  confirmed  by  so  very  old  a  Baronet 
seeing  such  a  very  large  wall. 

"  Suppose  we  accept  Madeline's  theory  as  a  work- 
ing hypothesis,  and  see  how  we  get  on.  If  we  quite 
understand  the  last  bit,  and  I  think  we  do,  what 
follows  is  not  unintelligible."  And  Mr.  Pelly  con- 
tinued reading: 

" ' .  .  .  Working  thus  patiently  in  long  and 
dreary  hours,  and  keeping  the  link  of  my  manacle 
well  in  the  straw  "to  drown  the  grating  noise,  I  come 
to  know,  on  the  third  day  of  my  labour,  that  but  a 
very  little  more  is  wanted  and  the  ring  will  be  cut 
through ;  and  then  I  know  the  chance  is  it  will  spring 
asunder  and  leave  the  two  links  free.  But  I  do  not 
seek  to  complete  the  cut  until  near  the  day  appointed, 
for  does  not  Uguccione  now  and  again  examine  all 
those  fetters,  sometimes  striking  them  with  a  small 
hammer  to  make  sure  they  have  not  been  tampered 
with  ?  So  I  keep  the  ring  hidden  as  best  I  may,  and 
the  cut  I  have  made  I  fill  in  with  kneaded  bread.  And 


316  A  LIKELY  STORY 

one  time  TJguccione  does  come  and  strike  the  irons, 
and  I  tremble.  But  by  great  good  luck  he 
strikes  so  that  they  ring,  and  I  am  at  my  ease 
again. 

"  '  Then  comes  what  was  my  hardest  task :  the 
making  of  footholes  in  the  shaft  that  I  might  climb 
and  reach  the  underside  of  the  trap.  But  first  I 
must  tell  you  why  I  need  do  this.  For  you  will  say, 
Why  could  not  Attilio  let  down  a  cord  and  pull 
me  up  through  the  trap?  So  he  could,  in  truth, 
were  it  possible  to  open,  the  trap  from  overhead. 
But  it  was  closed  with  a  key  from  above  that  came 
through  a  great  length  to  the  lock  below.  Only  I 
could  well  understand  from  the  description  that  this 
lock  would  be  no  such  great  matter  to  prize  back 
from  underneath  could  I  once  make  shift  to  reach 
it.  Therein  lay  the  great  difficulty,  shackled  as  I 
was,  although  the  links  should  be  parted,  to  climb 
up  this  long  shaft  and  work  at  the  opening  of  this 
lock,  standing  on  what  poor  foothold  I  could  con- 
trive in  total  darkness. 

"  '  Nevertheless,  Illustrissima,  be  assured  that  I 
go  to  my  work  with  a  good  will,  though  with  little 
hope.  And  on  the  first  night  I  succeed  in  loosing 
three  bricks  from  their  place  in  the  wall,  at  such 
intervals  that  each  gives  a  foothold  I  may  reach  to 
from  the  one  below  it  on  the  other  side.  And  the 
next  night  again  three  more.  And  so  on  for  six 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  317 

nights,  working  patiently.  And  now  I  can  touch 
the  lock  that  is  above  me.  But  understand  that  I 
did  not  remove  these  bricks,  else  had  I  been  at  a 
great  loss  where  to  hide  them  from  TJguccione.  I 
left  them  loose  in  their  places,  so  that  I  could  twist 
them  out  sideways,  and  thus  make  a  kind  of  step. 
For  you  know  how  strong  our  Tuscan  bricks  are. 
Yet  I  had  much  ado  to  hide  away  the  loose  mortar 
that  came  from  between  the  joints.  And  had  it 
not  been  that  the  fetter  on  my  wrist,  now  free,  served 
to  prize  out  the  bricks  when  the  mortar  was  clear 
from  the  ends,  and  loosened  above  and  below,  I  had 
been  sore  put  to  it  to  detach  them,  so  firm  were 
they  in  their  places.  And  all  this  work,  Illustris- 
sima,  had  to  be  done  in  black  darkness,  by  guidance 
of  feeling  only! 

"  '  And  now,  please  you,  image  to  yourself  that  I 
have  made  my  topmost  step,  and  only  await  a  word 
of  signal  through  the  sfiatatoio.  And  this  was,  be- 
lieve me,  my  worst  time  of  all.  For  I  knew  that 
the  most  precious  thing  to  me  in  all  this  world,  the 
life  of  my  Maddalena,  must  be  risked  again  to  give 
me  that  signal !  Nay !  I  did  not  know,  could  not 
know,  that  she  had  not  already  tried  to  give  it,  and, 
so  attempting  it,  been  precipitated  to  the  awful  rocks 
below,  where  whoso  fell  might  readily  lie  unheeded, 
and  not  be  found  for  years. 

"  '  But  I  hold  to  my  purpose  in  a  silent  despair.    I 


318  A  LIKELY  STORY 

watch  through  hours  of  the  still  mornings.  But 
nothing  moves  again  in  front  of  the  little  stars  that 
come  and  go,  for  many  days.  I  do  not  let  myself 
count  the  days  nor  the  hours,  and  always  strive  to 
think  of  them  at  their  fewest.  Then  one  night  a 
meteor  shoots  across  the  span  of  sky  that  I  can  see, 
blinding  out  the  little  stars,  and  leaving  sparks  of 
fire  to  die  down  as  they  may.  And  my  heart  lifts, 
for  I  count  it  a  harbinger  of  good.  And  so  it 
proves,  for  I  next  hear — because,  understand  me, 
this  meteor  shot  across  Heaven's  vault  with  a  strong 
hissing  sound,  like  fuochi  artificiati — the  slack  of 
the  rope  that  lets  my  darling  down  to  me  with  her 
message  of  .  .  . ' ' 

Another  hitch  in  the  narrative.  Mr.  Pelly  stopped 
with  a  humble  apologetic  expression,  having  refer- 
ence rather  to  the  young  lady  than  to  her  parents. 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  quite  guilty 
— as  if  I  was  to  blame — when  these  abominable 
blanks  come." 

"  Yes !  And  you  know  I  always  think  it's  your 
fault;  and  I  do  get  so  angry.  Poor  Uncle 
Christopher!  What  a  shame!  What's  that, 
Mumsey  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  dear.  Only  I  thought  I  heard  the  step 
of  a  horse  in  the  Avenue." 

"  So  did  I.  Only  it  can't  be  anything  at  this  time 
of  night." 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  319 

The  knowledge  that  a  guest  was  pending  shortly 
— one  of  the  sort  that  comes  and  goes  at  will — 
caused  the  Baronet  to  say :  "  It  might  be  General 
Fordyce — only  he  said  he  wouldn't  come  till 
Tuesday."  To  whom  his  wife  and  daughter  replied 
conjointly : 

"  Oh  no !  The  General ! — not  at  midnight — well ! 
— at  half-past  eleven !  Look  at  the  clock.  Anyhow, 
his  room's  all  ready,"  etc.,  etc.  After  which  Made- 
line spoke  alone: 

"  Now,  Mr.  Pelly,  go  on  again.  I  do  so  hope  it's  a 
plummy  bit."  Then,  illogically,  "  Besides,  it  wasn't 
a  carriage."  She  silenced  a  disposition  of  her  par- 
ents to  interpose  on  Mr.  Felly's  behalf  by  saying: 
"  Oh  no,  we  shan't  tire  Uncle  Christopher  to  death. 
Shall  we,  Uncle  Christopher  ?  " 

"  God  bless  me,  no !  The  idea !  Besides,  there's 
really  not  so  very  much  more  to  read.  Unless  I'm 
keeping  you  up  ?  " 

"  Pupsey  and  Mumsey  can  go  to  bed,  and  leave 
us  to  finish." 

"  Oh  no !  We  want  to  hear  the  end  of  it."  Pup- 
sey and  Mumsey  were  unanimous. 

"  Very  well,  then !  I  can  fill  up  Uncle's  glass 
and  Pupsey's,  and  we  can  go  on  and  finish  com- 
fortably. Now,  fire  away !  "  And  Mr.  Pelly  read 
on: 

"  ' .    .    .1  can  hear  them  in  the  room  above  me. 


320  A  LIKELY  STORY 

The  voice  of  my  darling  herself.  But  oh — this 
black  darkness!  One  little  gleam  of  light,  and  I 
know  I  can  manage  this  accursed  lock.  But  I  can 
see  nothing;  and  who  knows  but  by  trying  and 
trying  stupidly,  in  the  dark,  I  may  not  make  matters 
worse  ?  But  I  will  try,  again  and  again,  rather  than 
fail  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  is  so  near  me — so  near,  I 
can  hear  her  voice.  .  .  . 

"  l  All  suddenly,  a  gleam  of  light  from  below.  A 
miracle,  but  what  care  I?  I  can  see  the  lock  now, 
plain !  Ah,  the  stupidity  of  me !  I  was  forcing  it 
the  wrong  way  all  the  time.  Now  for  a  sharp,  sharp 
strain,  with  all  the  strength  I  have  left !  And  back 
goes  the  lock  with  a  snap !  I  can  hear  its  sound 
welcomed  above,  and  another  strain  on  the  trap, 
and  the  first  creak  of  its  hinge.  It  will  shriek ;  and 
they  stop,  as  I  think,  to  make  it  silent  with  a  little 
oil. 

"  '  Then  my  glance  goes  down  the  shaft  to  ask 
what  was  my  light,  that  came  to  save  me  in  such 
good  time.  It  was  surely  the  Holy  Mary  herself, 
or  a  blessed  Saint  from  Heaven,  that  took  pity  on 
me.  .  .  . 

"  '  No !  It  is  Uguccione  the  gaoler,  with  his  little 
lamp  of  brass. 

"  '  "  Aha — ha — ha ! — my  friend.  Come  you  down 
— come  you  down!  Or  shall  I  get  a  little  fire  and 
smoke,  to  tickle  you  and  make  you  come?  It  is 


A  LIKELY  STORY 

useless,  ca.ro  mio!  The  wise  player  gives  up  the 
lost  game.  Come  you  down!  It  is  not  thus  folk 
say  farewell  to  the  Castello  del  bel  Biposo.  Come 
you  down,  my  friend !  Or  shall  I  wait  a  little  ?  I 
can  wait !  ]STo  hurry,  look  you !  " 

"  1 1  am  sad  at  heart  to  have  to  do  it,  but  there 
is  no  other  way.  Whether  he  lived  or  died  I  know 
not,  but  I  should  grieve  to  think  he  died.  For  I 
had  no  hatred  for  Uguccio,  who,  after  all,  did 
but  his  duty.  But  there  is  no  other  way.  I  am 
standing  on  two  bricks  that  I  have  placed  over 
against  each  other,  for  firmer  foothold  and  better 
purchase  on  the  lock.  One  of  them  I  loosen  out, 
standing  only  on  the  other  and  leaning  shoulder- 
wise  against  the  wall.  And  then  I  send  it  down  the 
shaft,  with  a  blessing  for  Uguccio.  I  can  see  his 
face,  turning  up  to  me  in  the  light  of  his  little  broken 
lamp. 

"  '  The  brick  strikes  him  full  on  the  temple,  but 
it  also  strikes  out  his  light.  I  hear  him  fall.  I  hear 
a  groan  or  gasp.  But  I  see  only  black  darkness 
below,  and  the  red  wick-spark  of  the  lamp,  that 
grows  less  and  less,  and  will  die.  Then  only 
darkness. 

"  '  Then  my  last  senses  fail  me.  But  I  know  the 
trap  opens,  and  a  strong  arm  comes  down  and  grips 
my  wrist  from  above.  And  then  I  find  myself  lying 
on  the  floor  of  a  great  hall  in  a  dim  light.  And  into 


322  A  LIKELY  STORY 

my  eyes,  as  I  lie  there,  little  better  than  a  corpse,  if 
the  truth  be  told,  are  looking  the  sweetest  eyes  surely 
God  ever  made.  .  .  . ' ' 

Here  Madeline  exclaimed,  interrupting,  "  Oh, 
how  jolly!  Now  they're  there!  But  do  go  on;  I 
mustn't  interrupt.  Go  on,  Uncle  Kit."  The  reader 
continued,  "  ' .  .  .  And  her  two  hands  stroke  my 
face  and  hold  me  by  my  own.  .  .  . " 

At  this  point  Sir  Stopleigh  interposed,  respectably. 
"  A — really,"  said  he,  "  we  must  hope  that  this 
young  lady,  whoever  she  was,  was  not  the  Duke's 
wife.  You  will  excuse  me,  my  dear  Madeline,  but 
that  is  certainly  what  I  understood  you  to  sup- 
pose." 

His  daughter  interjected  disreputably,  "  Oh, 
bother !  Never  mind  Pupsey — go  on." 

Then  Mr.  Pelly  said  apologetically,  "  It  was  the 
Middle  Ages,  you  know.  Let's  see,  where  were  we  ? 
Oh — '  hold  me  by  my  own '  " — and  went  on  read- 
ing: 

"  ' .  .  .  And  her  dear  voice  is  in  my  ears,  and  if  I 
die  now,  at  least  I  shall  have  lived.  So  said  I  to 
myself,  as  Attilio  worked  hard  with  a  file  to  free 
my  limbs.  And  they  moisten  bread  with  wine,  and 
put  it  in  my  mouth.  For,  indeed,  what  I  say  is  true, 
and  the  last  of  my  strength  went  in  sending  that 
litttle  ambasciata  to  the  poor  Uguccio.  Still,  revival 
is  in  me,  though  it  comes  slowly.  But  I  can  only 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  323 

utter  the  one  word  "  Love,"  and  can  only  move  to 
kiss  the  hand  I  hold  and  the  pale  face  that  comes 
to  mine.  Then  I  hear  the  beloved  voice  I  had  never 
hoped  to  hear  again: 

"  l  "  Can  we  trust  that  wicked  old  Marta,  Attilio  ? 
If  she  betrays  us  we  are  lost." 

"  (  "  Che  che!  She  owes  him  an  old  grudge,  and 
will  pay  him — now  or  later!  And  a  thousand 
crowns,  per  Bacco!  No,  no  — trust  her!  " 

"  '  "  But  I  hear  a  footstep  coming  down  his  stair ; 
if  it  is  she,  it  is  to  say  he  is  waked.  If  it  is  he,  she 
has  betrayed  us." 

"  f  "  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  I  wager.  See, 
the  Signore  is  getting  the  blood  in  his  face.  He  will 
eat  soon,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"  l  Then  I  feel  in  my  neck  a  dog's  nose,  that 
smells,  and  the  touch  of  his  tongue,  that  licks.  But 
what  he  would  say  we  know  not,  though  he  tries 
to  speak,  too,  dogwise.  I  know  him  for  the  cagno- 
letto  of  la  Marta,  the  old  woman — for  had  I  not  seen 
him  in  the  days  when  I  painted  my  Maddalena  in 
the  Stanza  delle  Quattro  Corone  ?  .  .  . " 

Madeline  interrupted  again.  "  Now  I  hope  you're 
convinced.  He  was  sent  for  to  paint  the  Duchess. 
And  he  painted  Maddalena.  Of  course,  Maddalena 
was  the  Duchess !  " 

"  The  Herr  Professor's  theory  is  that  he  painted 
two  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  Maddalena,  some 


324  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

beautiful  attendant  with  whom  he  was  in  love,  the 
other  the  Duchess.  He  may  have,  you  know !  " 

"  He  may  have  done  anything,  Uncle  Chris- 
topher! But  he  didn't.  What's  the  use  of  being 
so  roundabout  ?  Besides,  if  she  wasn't  the  Duchess, 
how  did  she  know  the  Duke  was  asleep  ?  " 

Her  parents  may  have  been  anxious  to  avoid 
critical  discussion,  and  suggested  that  perhaps  the 
reading  had  better  go  on.  It  is  just  possible,  also, 
that  Mr.  Pelly,  who  was  a  typical  little  old  bachelor, 
saw  rocks  ahead  in  a  discussion  of  the  Duke  and 
Duchess's  domestic  arrangements,  for  he  introduced 
a  point  of  which  the  Baronet  and  his  Lady  did  not 
see  the  importance. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  Miss  Mad !  "  said  the  old  gentleman, 
laying  down  the  manuscript.  "  I've  a  bone  to  pick 
with  you." 

"  Don't  be  too  long.  I  want  to  know  what  that 
old  woman  had  been  at.  It's  only  some  Scientific 
nonsense,  I  expect.  Go  on." 

"  It's  not  Scientific  this  time.  It's  the  other  way 
round."  Miss  Upwell  pricked  up  her  ears.  "  I 
want  to  know,  if  there  was  a  Duchess  named  Madda- 
lena,  what  becomes  of  the  theory  that  I  christened 
the  picture-ghost  after  you  by  subconscious  cerebra- 
tion ? " 

"  I  see.  Of  course.  I  didn't  see  that,"  It  had 
produced  a  visible  impression.  Madeline  appeared 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  325 

to  cogitate  over  it  in  an  animated  way,  and  then  to 
mellow  to  a  conclusion  suddenly.  "  Well — but  that 
proves  it  wasn't  a  dream  at  all,  but  a  genuine 
phenomenon,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  I'm  right,  and 
you're  wrong,  and  the  picture  was  telling  the  truth 
all  through.  I  knew  she  was."  Her  three  hearers 
smiled  from  within  the  entrenchments  of  their 
maturity  at  the  youthful  enthusiasm  of  the  speaker, 
and  then  said  very  correct  things  about  this  coinci- 
dence and  that  being  really  remarkable,  and  how 
we  must  not  allow  our  judgments  to  be  swayed  by 
considerations,  and  must  weigh  everything  deliber- 
ately, and  accept  everything  else  with  caution,  and 
hesitate  about  this,  and  pause  before  that,  all  with 
a  view  to  avoiding  heterodox  conclusions.  After 
which  Mr.  Pelly  resumed  : 

"  '  Then,  as  Attilio  holds  his  hand  a  moment  from 
filing,  as  one  who  awaits  some  issue  before  he  may 
begin  his  labours  afresh;  and  as  my  darling,  whom 
alone  I  see — for  I  see  nothing  else — awaits  it,  too, 
I  hear  a  step  that  halts,  and  then  a  door  is  pushed 
from  without,  and  the  step  halts  into  the  room,  as 
some  clocks  tick.  And  it  is  then  I  begin  to  know 
of  a  great  pain  in  my  right  hand. 

"  '  And  here  I  may  say  to  you,  Illustrissima,  that 
had  this  chanced  but  a  few  years  later,  this  hand 
of  mine  that  was  my  joy  to  use,  the  source  and  very 
life  of  all  my  skill,  might  even  have  been  saved, 


326  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

and  I  might  many  times  again  have  painted  the 
dear  face  of  my  Maddalena.  For  what  is  there  that 
is  not  possible  to  the  skill  of  the  great  Francese 
Ambrogio  ? ' 

"  This  would  be  Ambroise  Pare,"  said  the  reader, 
"  who  would  have  been  about  the  same  age  as  Cosimo 
dei  Medici,  the  father  of  the  lady  to  whom  this  is 
written  ..."  But  he  resumed  abruptly,  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  shade  of  impatience  in  Madeline : — 

"  '  Yet  have  I  not  been  altogether  disabled.  For 
do  I  not  write  this  with  my  left  hand  ?  I  am,  how- 
ever, but  an  egoista — a  selfish  person — to  dwell  on 
this;  though  I  know  your  Excellency  will  pardon 
this  fault  in  an  old  man. 

"  '  I  hear,  then,  the  halting  step  approach.  And 
both  await  the  words  that  will  follow  it  in  silence. 
It  is  the  old  Marta  Zan. 

" '  "  Sta  tranquillo — sta  tranquillo  per  bene  !  "  He 
is  quiet — he  is  quiet  for  good !  Her  voice  has  a  little 
laugh  in  it.  It  is  not  a  sweet  laugh  to  hear. 

"'"Does  he  still  sleep— will  he  sleep?"  It  is 
my  Maddalena  who  asks.  And  la  Marta  replies, 
" Non  c'e  pericolo!  No  fear!"  But  I  see  across 
the  shoulder  of  my  darling,  as  she  stoops  over  me 
again  and  tries  to  clear  my  brow  of  tangled  hair — 
but,  you  may  well  think,  to  little  purpose — I  see 
that  the  old  woman  holds  somewhat  up,  hanging 
from  betwixt  her  finger  and  old  thumb,  to  show  to 


A  LIKELY  STORY  327 

Attilio.  And  he  laughs  to  see  the  little  knife  and 
its  sharp  point,  but  below  his  breath,  as  guilt  laughs 
to  guilt.  But  this  my  beloved  heeds  not;  she  is 
busy  with  my  hair. 

"  1 1  can  tell  but  little  now  from  what  I  saw  with 
my  own  eyes  of  what  happened  in  the  sequel,  till  I 
found  myself  here  again  in  the  little  old  Castello  in 
the  hills  where  I  passed  all  the  early  years  of  my 
boyhood,  in  the  family  of  my  wife's  father,  now 
dead;  though  her  mother  still  lived,  and  for  many 
years  after  that.  What  I  do  remember  comes  to 
me  as  the  speech  of  those  about  him  reaches  the 
sleeper  who  half  wakes,  to  sleep  and  dream  again. 

"  '  I  can  recollect  riding,  behind  Attilio  this  time, 
down  the  stony  road  I  had  come  up  in  such  pain 
behind  his  comrade.  I  can  just  recollect  the  bark- 
ing of  the  great  dogs  in  the  Castle  court  when  we 
came  away;  whereon  my  Maddalena  spoke  earnestly 
to  one  of  them,  Leone,  and  he  went  and  carried  her 
speech  to  the  others,  and  they  were  silent,  though 
some  made  protest  under  their  full  utterance.  And 
though  I  saw  the  janitors  and  porters  at  the  great 
gate  in  deep  sleep,  I  did  not  then  know  of  the  cunning 
work  of  the  old  Marta,  who,  indeed,  was  learned  in 
the  use  of  drugs,  and  could  as  easily  have  poisoned 
them  all  as  made  them  sleep.  Indeed,  it  was  said 
by  many  that  the  clever  Duchess  of  Ferrara,  the 
sister  of  Cesare  Borgia,  had  learned  somewhat  of  the 


328  A  LIKELY  STORY 

art  of  poisoning  in  her  youth  from  this  same  Marta 
Zan.  But  of  this  I  can  say  nothing  with  certainty. 

"  l  But  this  I  do  know,  that  this  Marta,  who  was 
then  near  on  eighty  years  of  age,  having  received 
the  reward  she  had  earned  of  five  hundred  crowns, 
and  another  five  hundred  for  a  buona  mano,  did  not 
accompany  us?  on  the  score  of  her  age,  being  unable 
to  mount  a  horse.  But,  as  you  may  guess,  Eccel- 
lenza,  it  was  she  who  had  occasioned  the  old  Duke's 
death,  and  none  of  my  doing,  as  was  said  by  some, 
though  the  certainty  that  the  knife  used  was  the 
girdle-dagger  of  the  fat  Castellan  Ferretti  was  held 
a  sure  proof  of  his  guilt,  and  led  to  his  being  giusti- 
ziato  some  months  later.  And  she  chose  this  way 
of  sending  her  old  betrayer  to  Hell  rather  than  that 
of  poison,  seeing  that  her  skill  in  this  last  was  so 
well  known  to  all  that  there  was  none  other  in  the 
household  on  whom  suspicion  could  have  fallen.  On 
which  account,  as  I  have  since  understood,  she  re- 
turned again  to  his  bedside  to  see  her  work  secure, 
and  replaced  the  knife  in  the  wound,  whereby  the 
guilt  of  his  death  was  fixed  on  the  fat  Ferretti.  I 
can  in  nowise  guess  why  la  Marta  so  long  deferred 
her  revenge  against  the  Duke,  except  it  was  .  .  . ' ' 

Mr.  Pelly  stopped  despairingly.  "  Half  a  page 
gone!  We  must  remain  unenlightened — as  well  as 
on  a  good  many  other  points.  There  is  not  very 
much  more.  I  may  as  well  finish : — 


A  LIKELY  STORY  329 

"  '  How  great  my  happiness  has  been  with  my 
Maddalena  you,  lllustrissima,  may  know  from  your 
most  illustrious  father,  who  has  known  of  me 
throughout.  Life  is  made  up  of  good  and  ill,  and 
what  right  has  one  so  truly  blessed  as  I  have  been 
to  complain  of  the  cruelty  of  Fate  in  depriving  him 
of  his  right  hand  and  its  power  of  work  ?  Think 
of  what  his  lot  is  to  him  to  whom  night  and  day 
alike  give  the  sun  in  heaven  to  his  soul!  Contrast 
it  with  that  of  the  sated  blow-fly,  of  the  world- 
compelling  tyrant,  at  whose  pleasure  are  all  the 
contents,  at  choice,  of  all  the  world's  treasure- 
houses,  except  Love.  That  is  the  one  thing  wealth 
cannot  buy,  that  the  behests  of  kings  command  in 
vain!  And  that  has  been  mine,  in  all  its  fulness; 
a  fruit  whose  sweetness  has  no  compeer,  a  jewel 
whose  light  mirrors  back  the  glow  that  shines  for 
ever  in  the  eyes  of  God.  .  .  . ' '  The  reader 
paused,  for  there  was  an  interruption  from  without. 

"  What  on  earth  can  it  be,  at  this  time  of  night  ? 
I'm  sure  it's  a  carriage  this  time !  Do  look  out  and 
see — oh  no!  go  on  and  let's  have  the  rest.  It  can 
only  be  the  General — he  changed  his  mind,  and  his 
train  was  late.  We  shall  see  in  a  minute — let's 
have  the  last  page.  ..."  This  was  collective 
speech,  which  ended  when  Mr.  Pelly  said,  "  There 
isn't  very  much."  He  went  on  reading  rapidly,  sub- 
ject to  a  sense  of  advent,  elsewhere  in  the  house : — 


330  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

"  '  One  only  thing,  as  I  have  said,  is  to  me  a 
constant  thorn  of  regret — the  destruction  of  the 
picture  I  painted  in  those  early  days,  of  my  Madda- 
lena.  It  was  all  my  heart  and  strength  could  do, 
and  would  have  served  to  tell  of  all  I  might  have 
done  had  God  but  spared  me  my  right  hand.  But 
-fiat  voluntas  iua,  Domine!  None  knows  for  certain 
how  it  was  destroyed,  nor  by  whom.  For  the  state- 
ment of  the  Old  Devil  to  my  Maddalena,  that  it  was 
burned,  for  that  it  \vas  judged  worthless  by  men  of 
great  knowledge  in  Art,  and  condemned  as  rubbish, 
is  of  little  weight.  In  those  last  days  what  could 
have  been  the  motive  of  such  a  statement  but  to 
add  to  my  darling's  pain?  It  was  averred  by  the 
Ferretti,  even  to  the  day  that  he  went  to  the  gibbet, 
that  it  was  removed  to  a  place  of  safety  by  order 
of  the  Duke;  but  either  he  did  not  choose  to  say  to 
what  place,  or  possibly  did  not  know.  And  when 
all  the  contents  of  the  rooms  the  Duke  had  lived  in 
were  removed,  and  the  late  Duke,  his  son,  came 
and  took  possession  of  the  castle,  so  deep  was  his 
hatred  of  his  father's  memory — as,  indeed,  he 
believed  his  mother  had  been  poisoned  by  his 
orders — that  he  had  all  the  furniture  removed,  and 
all  the  pictures  that  might  bring  back  the  wicked 
old  man's  memory  to  his  mind.  And  there  was  no 
such  picture  among  them,  as  I  saw  myself;  for  by 
invitation  of  Duke  Giulio,  with  whom  I  have  always 


A  LIKELY  STORY  331 

been  on  friendly  terms,  I  inspected  every  picture 
as  it  was  removed  from  the  Ducal  apartments,  the 
walls  of  which,  as  you  know,  were  so  worthily 
decorated  afterwards  by  Francesco  Primaticcio,  to 
whom  I  would  so  proudly  have  shown  that  one 
little  work  by  mine  own  hand.  But,  alas!  there  is, 
I  fear,  no  doubt  that  for  once  only  the  old  Duke 
spoke  without  lying,  and  that  in  truth  he  had  had 
it  burned,  for  a  dispetto  to  me,  and  to  give  a  little 
more  pain  to  my  darling.  .  .  . ' ' 

At  this  point  Mr.  Pelly,  being  close  to  the  end, 
read  quicker  and  quicker,  to  make  a  finish  before 
the  outcome  of  the  carriage,  whatever  it  was,  should 
be  made  manifest  and  break  up  the  seance.  But 
the  time  was  too  short,  as  Mr.  Stebbings  the  butler 
appeared,  charged,  as  it  seemed,  with  some  com- 
munication, but  hesitating  about  the  choice  of 
language  in  which  to  make  it. 

"  General  Fordyce,  your  Ladyship.  The  General 
desired  me  to  say,  Sir  Stopleigh,  would  you  be  so 
good  as  speak  to  him  a  half  a  minute  ?  "  But  Sir  S. 
was  slow  of  apprehension,  perhaps  sleepy,  and  said 
hay  what!  Both  ladies  spoke  together.  "  It  is  the 
General!  Don't  you  understand?  He  wants  you 
to  go  out  and  speak  to  him." 

"  Me  go  out  and  speak  to  him — what  for  ?  " 

"  You'll  find  that  out  by  going.  Look  alive, 
Pupsey !  " 


332  A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  I'm  coming,  Stebbings !  What  on  earth  can  the 
General  want  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Do  go  and  see  him,  and  find  out."  This  was 
in  chorus,  from  both  ladies,  as  before.  Exit  Pupsey. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  can  be !  However,  we  shall 
hear  directly.  Is  there  any  more  to  read,  Uncle 
Christopher  ?  " 

Mr.  Pelly  read  in  a  slighting,  conclusive  sort  of 
way:— 

"  t  So  now  I  cannot  show  you, .  Illustrissima,  as  I 
so  gladly  should  have  done,  how  little  change  has 
come  in  the  golden  hair  of  my  Maddalena,  in  all 
these  thirty  years!  Nor  the  painting  of  that  one 
well-remembered  lock  that  fell  all  in  ripples  on  the 
sunflower  brocade  upon  her  bosom ' ' 

Madeline  got  suddenly  up  and  stood  again  facing 
the  picture. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  come  here  and  see  and  be 
convinced,  Mr.  Incredulous."  And  Mr.  Pelly  came, 
and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,"  said  he.  "  That  certainly 
does  look " 

"  Very  like  indeed !  Doesn't  it  ?  But  you'll  see 
Pupsey  will  want  to  have  his  own  way.  He  always 
does!" 

"  Whatever  can  your  father  be  talking — talking 
— talking  to  the  General  about?  Why  can't  they 
come  in  ?  WThat  on  earth  can  it  be  ? "  This  is 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  333 

from  her  ladyship — a  semi-aside.  She  is  listening 
to  the  talking  at  a  distance.  Then  Madeline  said, 
"  I  hope  you  are  convinced,  Mr.  Pelly,"  and  after 
one  more  long  look  at  the  picture  turned  and  went 
to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  listened  through  it.  Her 
mother  said  maternally,  "  Madeline — my  dear !  " 
But  for  all  that  she  stood  and  listened,  as  though 
she  heard  something.  And  Mr.  Pelly,  following  her 
mother's  eyes,  turned  and  watched  her  as  she  stood. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  something  like  a  gasp  took 
her,  as  though  her  breath  caught  with  a  suddea 
thrill,  visible  in  her  shoulders  as  her  dress  was  cut, 
and  that  her  white  left  arm,  that  was  farthest  from 
the  door,  caught  up  tight,  and  as  it  were  grasped 
her  heart.  Her  ladyship,  looking  at  her  over  her 
shoulder,  began,  "  Why — child !  "  and  immedi- 
ately got  up  and  crossed  the  room  to  her,  saying, 
"  Is  anything  wrong  ?  "  Then,  as  the  girl  closed  the 
door  and  turned  round,  Mr.  Pelly  saw  that  she  had 
gone  ashy  white,  near  as  white  as  the  clean  art- 
paint  on  the  door  she  stood  by.  But  she  only  said, 
"  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute."  Her  mother  said, 
"  Come  and  sit  down,  darling,"  which  she  did ;  but 
sat  quite  still,  looking  white.  "  I  wish  Sir  Stop- 
leigh  would  come,"  said  her  mother.  Mr.  Pelly  was 
frightened,  but  behaved  well,  for  a  little  old  bachelor. 
Presently  her  colour  came  again,  and  she  said, 
"  It  must  have  been  my  fancy,"  and  her  mother 


334  A  LIKELY  STORY 

said,  "  What  must,  dear  ?  Do  tell  us !  "  But  she 
only  said,  "  How  on  earth  can  I  have  been  such  a 
fool  ?  "  Then  her  mother  said  again,  "  But  what 
was  it,  dear  ?  "  and  she  answered  uneasily,  "  Nothing, 
Munisey."  Her  mother  and  Mr.  Pelly  looked  at  one 
another,  puzzled. 

Sir  Stopleigh  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  saying 
to  his  wife  would  she  come  out  for  a  minute  and 
speak  to  him  ?  On  which  Madeline  said  suddenly, 
"  I  shall  go  to  bed.  Good-night,  Uncle  Chris- 
topher!— Good-night,  Pupsey  and  Mumsey!  "  and 
lit  a  candle  and  went  away  quickly  upstairs.  "  How 
very  funny  of  Mad,"  her  mother  said,  as  she  fol- 
lowed her  husband  from  the  room.  "  Not  at  all 
like  her!  I'll  say  good-night,  Uncle  Christopher, 
but  you  do  as  you  like."  The  momentary  vision 
of  Sir  Stopleigh — who  said  he  would  come  back 
directly — left  Mr.  Pelly  with  an  impression  that  he 
was  very  full  of  something  to  tell.  And  certainly 
there  came  a  great  sudden  exclamation  of  glad  sur- 
prise from  her  ladyship  almost  as  soon  as  the  door 
closed  behind  her. 

"  I  shall  hear  all  about  it  in  good  time,"  said  Mr. 
Pelly.  "  At  least,  I  suppose  so."  He  sat  down 
contentedly  in  the  large  armchair  opposite  the 
picture,  and  looked  at  the  fire.  Seventy-seven  can 
wait. 

The  murmur  of  a  distant  colloquy,  heard  through 


A  LIKELY  STORY  335 

doors  and  passages,  and  quenched  by  carpets, 
assorts  itself  into  its  elements  as  the  silence  in  the 
library  gets  under  weigh,  and  sharpens  Mr.  Felly's 
hearing.  He  is  clear  about  the  woman's  voice:  his 
hostess's,  of  course — no  other.  But  is  that  George's, 
or  the  General's,  the  unexplained  outsider's  ?  Surely 
that  was  a  third  voice,  just  now  ?  Xever  mind,  Mr. 
Pelly  can  wait ! 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  THE  PICTURE  SPOKE  AGAIN.  ABSTRACT  METAPHYSICAL 
QUESTIONS,  AND  NO  ANSWERS.  HOW  THE  PICTURE'S  MEM- 
ORY WAS  SHARPENED,  AND  HOW  MR.  PELLY  WOKE  UP.  MR. 
STEBBINGS  AND  MRS.  BUCKMASTER.  THE  ACTULE  FAX. 
JACK'S  RESURRECTION,  WITHOUT  AN  ARM.  FULL  PARTICU- 
LARS. ALL  FAIR  IN  LOVE.  HOW  MR.  PELLY  KNEW  THE 
PICTURE  COULD  SEE  ALL  AND  HOW  MADELINE  HAD  NOT 
GONE  TO  BED.  CAPTAIN  MACLAGAN'S  FAMILY.  FULLER 
PARTICULARS.  GENERAL  FORDYCE  AND  THE  BART.  NOT 
W ANTED.  WHAT  THE  PICTURE  MUST  HAVE  SEEN  AND  MAY 
HAVE  THOUGHT.  GOOD-BYE  TO  THE  STORY.  MERE  POST- 
SCRIPT 

IT  is  scarcely  fair  play  to  make  a  merit  of  patience 
— isn't  cricket,  as  folk  say  nowadays — when  you 
are  in  a  comfortable  armchair  before  a  warm,  fire, 
and  are  feeling  drowsy.  But,  then,  Mr.  Pelly  was 
under  an  entirely  wrong  impression  on  this  point, 
and  had  scheduled  himself  as  wakeful,  but  content 
to  bide  his  time.  Yet  he  might  reasonably  have 
suspected  himself  of  drowsiness  when  James,  the 
young  man,  coming  to  wind  up  the  contents  of  the 
room,  and  revise  the  shutters,  retreated  with 
apologies.  For  had  he  been  really  awake,  he  would 
certainly  have  said,  "  All  right,  James !  Come  in. 
Never  mind  me !  "  As  it  was,  he  deferred  doing  so 
a  fraction  of  a  second,  and  the  consequences  were 

336 


A  LIKELY  STORY  337 

fatal.  He  remained  wide  awake,  no  doubt — people 
always  do.  But  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that 
James  had  gone,  closing  the  door  gently,  when  the  pic- 
ture said  to  him  from  the  chimneypiece,  in  exactly 
the  voice  he  had  heard  before,  "  Is  it  all  true  ?  " 

Mr.  Pelly  found  that,  mysteriously,  he  took  it  as 
a  matter  of  course  that  this  should  be  so.  "I  pre- 
sume," he  said,  "  that  you  are  alluding  to  the  sub- 
stance of  the  manuscript  we  have  just  read.  I  am 
scarcely  in  a  position  to  form  an  opinion." 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  the  picture.  At  least,  she 
said  "  Perche  ?  "  and  this  translates  "  Why  not  ?  "  in 
English. 

"  Because  I  am  conscious  of  a  strong  bias  towards 
accepting  it  as  true,  occasioned  by  the  details  of 
your  own  Italian  experience,  which  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  give  me — perhaps  you  will  remember? — 
some  while  since — let  me  see? — before  I  went  away 
to  see  that  niece  of  mine  married  at  Cowcester. 
Now,  this  narrative  of  yours — so  my  Reason 
tells  me;  and  I  may  add  that  I  have  already 
committed  myself  to  this  opinion  when  awake — can 
only  be  regarded  as  a  figment  of  my  own  imagi- 
nation, based  on  a  partial  perusal  of  the  manuscript 
you  have  just  heard — that  is  to  say,  would  have 
just  heard  had  you  been  objective.  I  am  borrowing 
a  phrase  from  my  friend,  Professor  Schrudengesser. 
I  do  not  see  that  any  harm  can  come  of  my  speaking 


338  A  LIKELY  STORY 

plainly,  as  if  you  happen  to  have  an  independent 
existence  you  will  appreciate  the  difficulties  of  the 
position,  and  if  you  haven't,  I  don't  see  that  it 
matters." 

"  Mr.  Pelly,"  said  the  picture  impressively,  "  I 
should  like,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to  say  a  serious  word 
to  you  on  this  subject.  I  refer  to  the  reality  of 
our  existence,  a  subject  to  which  the  most  frivolous 
amongst  us  cannot  afford  to  be  indifferent.  Have 
you  never  considered  that  the  only  person  of  whose 
existence  we  have  absolute  certainty  is  ourself? 
Outside  and  beyond  it,  are  we  not  painfully  depend- 
ent on  the  evidence  of  our  senses?  What  is  our 
dearest  friend  to  us  but  a  series  of  impressions  on 
our  sight,  touch,  and  hearing,  plus  the  conclusion 
we  draw — possibly  unsound — that  what  we  touch 
is  also  what  we  see,  and  that  what  we  hear  proceeds 
from  both  ?  Have  you  attached  due  weight  to  .  .  .  ?  " 

Mr.  Pelly  interrupted  the  voice.  "  You  will 
excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  but  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
I  may  wake  at  any  moment,  is  it  not  rather  a  tempt- 
ing of  Providence  to  discuss  abstract  metaphysical 
questions?  No  one  would  be  more  interested  than 
myself  in  such  discussions  under  circumstances  of 
guaranteed  continuity.  But  ..."  Mr.  Pelly 
paused,  and  the  voice  laughed.  The  picture  itself 
remained  unmoved. 

"  '  Circumstances  of  guaranteed  continuity,'  "   it 


A  LIKELY  STOBY  339 

repeated  mockingly.  "  When  have  you  ever  had 
a  guarantee  of  continuity,  and  from  whom  ?  If  you 
were  suddenly  to  find  yourself  extinct,  at  any 
moment,  could  you  logically — could  you  reasonably 
— express  surprise? — you  who  had  actually  passed 
through  an  infinity  of  nonentity  before  you,  at 
any  rate,  became  a  member  of  Society?  Why 
should  not  your  nonentity  come  back  again?  What 
has  been,  may  be." 

Mr.  Felly's  mind  felt  referred  to  sudden  death, 
but  his  reply  was,  "  Guaranteed  continuity  of  com- 
munication was  what  I  meant."  Then  he  reflected 
that  perhaps  sudden  death  might  be  only  suspension 
of  communication — however,  he  had  had  no  ex- 
perience of  it  himself,  and  could  only  guess.  The 
picture  continued  sadly: 

"  That  makes  me  think  how  hard  it  is  that  you 
should  wake  to  live  in  the  great  world  I  cannot  join 
in;  to  move  about  and  be  free,  while  I  must  needs 
be  speechless!  Give  me  a  thought  sometimes,  even 
as  the  disembodied  spirit,  as  some  hold,  may  give 
a  thought  to  one  he  leaves  behind.  Yet  even  that 
one  is  better  off  than  I;  for  may  not  he  or  she 
rejoin  those  that  have  gone  before?  While  I  must 
grow  fainter  and  fainter,  and  be  at  last  unseen  and 
forgotten;  or  even  worse,  restored!  Rather  than 
that,  let  me  peel  and  be  relined,  or  sold  at  Christie's 
with  several  others  as  a  job  lot." 


340  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Mr.  Pelly  endeavoured  to  console  the  speaker. 
"  You  need  not  be  apprehensive/'  he  said.  "  You 
are  covered  with  glass,  and  in  a  warm  and  dry  place. 
Nothing  is  more  improbable  than  change,  in  any 
form,  at  Surley  Stakes.  Indeed,  the  first  baronet, 
over  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  is  said  to  have 
accepted  his  new  dignity  with  reluctance,  on  the 
score  of  its  novelty.  This  library  is  three  hundred 
years  old." 

"And  I,"  said  the  voice,  "was  over  one  hundred 
years  old  when  it  was  built.  But  tell  me — tell 
me — was  it  not  all  true,  the  story?  You  know  it 
was !  " 

"  It  rests  on  the  intrinsic  evidence  of  the  manu- 
script. There  is  nothing  to  confirm  it.  And,  as 
I  have  pointed  out  to  you,  your  own  narrative  may 
be  a  mere  figment  of  my  imagination — you  must  at 
least  admit  the  possibility— 

"  I  will  if  you  insist  upon  it ;  it  is  of  small  impor- 
tance to  me  what  others  think,  so  long  as  I  may  hang 
here  undisturbed,  and  dream  over  the  happy  days 
I  must  have  passed,  in  the  person  of  my  original, 
four  hundred  years  ago.  But  oh,  to  think  of  that 
hateful  time  of  bondage,  with  my  darling  hidden  in 
the  darkness  underground,  sore  with  manacles  and 
starved  for  want  of  food !  Think  of  my  joy  when 
I  could  see  and  feel  his  own  dear  face,  all  clammy 
though  it  was  with  the  dungeon  damps  from  below! 


A  LIKELY  STORY  341 

Think  of  my  exultation  at  his  returning  life — life 
to  be  lived  for  me!  And  believe  me — for  this  I 
can  know,  for  I  was  Maddalena,  and  now  it  comes 
like  a  dim  memory — that  I  shuddered  when  they 
told  me  that  the  sodden  old  horror  that  had  been 
my  owner  was  well  started  on  his  flight  to  Hell, 
sent  by  the  swift  little  knife-spike  of  my  Marta.  Oh, 
how  often  have  I  seen  that  little  knife  itself  in  the 
long  girth  that  could  but  just  span  the  bloated  carcase 
of  the  Ferretti ! — for  lie  is  a  clear  memory  to  me. 
And  to  think  that  that  knife — that  knife — was 
to  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Pelly  felt  constrained  to  interrupt.  "  Pardon 
me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  venture  to  recall  to  you  that  the 
duty  of  Christians,  of  all  denominations,  is  to  for- 
give; and  besides,  entirely  apart  from  that,  all  this 
occurred  such  a  very  long  time  ago." 

"  How  long  is  needed,  think  you  " — and  as  the 
voice  said  this,  it  almost  grew  cruel  in  its  earnest- 
ness— "  how  long,  for  a  girl,  to  forgive  the  utmost 
wrong  God  in  His  wisdom  has  put  it  in  the  power 
of  Man  to  inflict  on  Woman  ?  Still,  I  did  shudder — 
have  I  not  said  it? — at  what  they  told  me;  though 
they  showed  me  not  the  knife,  and  that  was  well. 
I  did  shudder,  it  is  true;  but  now,  as  you  say,  it 
is  best  forgotten.  Better  for  me  to  think  of  our  days 
that  must  have  been,  of  the  babes  that  were  born  to 
us  that  I  never  saw,  of  how  we  watched  them  growing 


342  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

in  the  happy  passing  hours,  in  the  little  old  Castello 
in  the  hills.  Better  for  me  to  know,  as  I  know  now, 
that  I,  while  this  thing  that  I  am  now — this  thing 
of  paint  and  canvas — lay  hid  in  a  garret,  even  I 
could  be  to  him,  my  love,  a  slight  half-solace  for  his 
ruined  hand.  How  slight,  who  can  tell  who  does 
not  know  what  a  lost  right  hand  means  to  the  artist 
whose  life  is  in  his  craft  ?  .  .  . " 

It  seemed  then  to  Mr.  Pelly  that  the  voice  con- 
tinued, though  he  heard  it  less  distinctly,  always 
dwelling  on  the  life  of  its  prototype,  as  revealed  to 
it  by  the  manuscript,  in  a  manner  that  the  dream- 
machinery  of  his  mind  failed  to  account  for.  His 
impression  was  that  it  continued  thus  for  a  very 
long  time — some  hours — during  the  last  half  of 
which  it  changed  its  character,  becoming  slowly 
merged  in  that  of  another  voice,  familiar  to  Mr. 
Pelly,  which  ended  by  saying  with  perfect  distinct- 
ness, "  The  Captain  wished  his  arm  to  be  broke 
gradual  to  his  family.  'Ence  what  I  say !  "  And 
then  Mr.  Pelly  was  suddenly  aware  that  he  had 
dropped  asleep  for  five  minutes,  and  had  been  spoil- 
ing his  night's  rest.  Also  that  he  was  now  quite 
awake,  and  that  Mr.  Stebbings  the  butler  had  spoken 
the  last  words  to  Mrs.  Buckmaster  the  housekeeper; 
and  that  both  were  unaware  that  he  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  large  armchair-back — and,  indeed,  it  was 
large  enough  to  conceal  something  bigger  than  Mr. 


A  LIKELY  STORY  343 

Pelly.  He  abstained  from  making  his  presence 
known,  however;  more,  perhaps,  because  he  thought 
he  was  scarcely  awake  enough  for  words  than  to 
hear  what  should  come  next.  He  fancied  the 
crushed  hand  incident  of  the  dream  had  mixed  itself 
into  Mr.  Stebbings's  last  speech,  and  made  nonsense 
of  it.  But  then,  how  about  the  sequel  ? 

"  '  His  arm  broke  gradual,'  Mr.  Stebbings  ?  " 
Mrs.  Buckmaster  repeated.  And  her  perception  of 
the  oddity  of  the  speech  reassured  Mr.  Pelly,  who 
began  to  suspect  he  might  be  awake.  But  he  waited 
for  the  reply. 

"  Quite  so,  Mrs.  Buckmaster.  Broke  gradual. 
From  consideration  for  family  feeling.  And  that, 
if  an  amanuensis,  suspicion  would  attach,  and,  in 
consequence,  divulge." 

Mr.  Stebbings's  style  assumed  that  if  he  used  the 
right  words,  somewhere,  it  didn't  matter  what  order 
they  came  in.  It  didn't  really  matter;  his  re- 
spectability seemed  more  than  a  makeweight  for 
slighted  syntax. 

Mrs.  Buckmaster  was  a  venerable  and  sweet 
institution  of  forty  years'  standing,  that  spoke  to 
every  member  of  the  household  as  "  my  dear " ; 
and  conveyed  an  impression,  always,  of  having  in 
her  hands  a  key  with  which  she  had  just  locked  a 
store-room,  or  was  going  to  unlock  one.  Or,  rather, 
not  so  much  a  key,  as  a  flavour  of  a  key.  Mrs. 


344  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Buckmaster  was  a  sort  of  amateur  mother  of  several 
county  families,  whose  components  all  but  acknowl- 
edged her,  and  paid  her  visits  in  her  private  apart- 
ments when  they  came  to  call  at  the  Stakes.  Her 
reply  to  Mr.  Stebbings  now  was,  "  Merciful  Heaven ! 
And  the  girl  nursed  him.  And  she  a  Dutch 
woman !  " 

Mr.  Pelly  roused  himself.  His  sensitive  conscience 
recoiled  from  further  eavesdropping.  "  What's  all 
that,  Stebbings?  What's  all  that,  Mrs.  Buck- 
master  ?  "  he  said,  becoming  manifest,  and  evoking 
apologies.  Mr.  Stebbings  had  had  no  idear! 

Mrs.  Buckmaster  said :  "  Well,  now — to  think  of 
that!"  then,  collecting  herself,  added,  "Tell  Mr. 
Pelly,  Thomas,  what  you  know.  Thomas  will  tell 
you,  sir,  what  he  knows." 

Thomas  perceived  distinction  ahead,  and  braced 
himself  for  an  effort.  "  Respecting  the  actule  fax, 
sir,  they  are  soon  told.  After  the  lamentable  dis- 
aster to  both  armies  at  Stroomsdrift,  accompanied 
with  unparalleled  'eroism  on  both  sides,  the  Captain's 
horse  became  restive,  and  ensued.  No  longer  under 
the  Captain's  control,  having  received  a  bullet 
through  the  upper  arm — unfortunately  the  right, 
but,  nevertheless,  in  the  service  of  his  country. 
Wonderful  to  relate,  he  retained  his  presence  of 
mind  " — Mr.  Stebbings's  pride  in  this  passage  was 
indescribable — "  and  arrived  without  further  dis- 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  345 

aster,  though  unconscious.  ..."  It  was  perhaps 
as  well  that  the  Baronet  called  Mr.  Stebbings  away  at 
this  point,  as  Mrs.  Buckmaster  knew  the  whole 
story. 

"  Why  on  earth  couldn't  Stebbings  begin  at  the 
beginning  ?  "  said  Mr.  Pelly,  rather  irritably.  "  Is 
Captain  Calverley  alive  or  dead  ? — that's  what  I  want 
to  know.  And  who's  that  outside,  talking  to  Sir 
George  and  the  General  ?  " 

"  It's  the  Captain  himself,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Buck- 
master.  "  Looking  that  well — only  no  arm !  His 
right,  too."  And  then  she  cleared  matters  up,  by 
telling  how,  after  the  battle,  the  young  soldier, 
badly  wounded  in  more  places  than  one,  had,  never- 
theless, contrived  to  keep  his  seat  on  a  half-runaway 
horse  he  could  scarcely  guide,  which  carried  him 
away  in  a  semi-conscious  state  to  a  lonely  farm  on 
the  veldt,  tenanted  only  by  a  Dutch  mother  and 
daughter.  These  two,  hating  roineks  in  theory, 
but  softening  to  a  young  and  handsome  one  in  prac- 
tice, had  kept  the  wounded  man  and  nursed  him 
round,  but  could  get  no  surgical  help  advanced 
enough  to  save  his  arm,  which  he  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  in  South  Africa.  The  daughter  had  evi- 
dently regarded  the  Captain  as  her  property — a  fair 
prisoner  of  war — and  had  done  her  best  to  retain 
him,  writing  letters  to  his  friends  for  him  at  his 
dictation,  which  were  never  despatched  in  spite  of 


346  A  LIKELY  STORY 

promises  made,  and  heading  off  search-parties 
that  appeared  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mrs.  Buck- 
master  condemned  this  conduct  on  principle,  but 
said :  "  Ah,  poor  girl — only  think  of  it,"  in 
practice. 

That  was  really  the  whole  of  the  story,  so  far. 
But  like  a  continuous  frieze,  it  would  bear  any 
quantity  of  repetition,  as  the  Captain's  reappearance 
always  suggested  his  first  departure,  five  months 
ago,  and  led  to  a  new  recital.  The  frieze,  however, 
was  not  to  remain  unbroken;  for  Mrs.  Buckmaster 
was  balked  of  her  fourth  da  capo  by  the  reappearance 
of  the  Baronet,  with  General  Fordyce,  both  of  them 
also  knee-deep  in  recapitulations.  Sir  George  was 
in  a  state  of  high  bewilderment. 

"  Just  listen  to  this,  Uncle  Kit.  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
know — Mrs.  Buckmaster's  told  you.  Never  mind, 
General,  tell  us  again  how  it  happened — it  has  been 
queer!  Tell  Mr.  Pelly  how  you  came  to  hear 
of  it." 

"  It  was  like  this,"  said  the  General,  who  was 
collected.  "  A  month  ago  I  was  knocked  over  by 
receiving  this  telegram.  Here  it  is."  He  produced 
it  from  a  pocket-book  and  read :  "  '  Am  alive  and 
well  if  news  that  am  marrying  Dutch  girl  contra- 
dict otherwise  keep  silent  till  I  come  Jack.'  Well, 
George,  I  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  bottle  up,  and 
I  assure  you  I  was  pretty  well  put  to  it  to  keep  my 


A  LIKELY  STORY  347 

own  counsel.  However,  I  really  hadn't  any  choice. 
Very  well,  then!  That  goes  on  till  ten  days  ago, 
when  another  wire  comes  from  Madeira,  '  Passenger 
by  Briton,  in  London  this  day  week,  Jack.'  And 
sure  enough  my  young  friend  bursts  into  my  cham- 
bers four  days  ago,  with,  i  Tell  me  about  Madeline — 
is  she  engaged  ? '  l  Xot  that  I  know  of,  my  dear 
boy,'  said  I.  '  And  I  think  I  should  know  if  she 
were.'  Then  says  he,  *  Oh,  what  a  selfish  beast  I 
am !  But  you'll  forgive  me,  General,  when  you 
know.'  However,  I  didn't  want  to  know,  but  forgave 
him  right  off." 

"  And  then  I  suppose  he  told  you  all  he's  been 
telling  us  downstairs — about  the  Dutch  girl  and  the 
farmhouse  on  the  veldt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  seems  to  have  known  very  little  from 
the  moment  he  was  struck  until  his  senses  came 
back  to  him  at  the  farm.  I  must  say  they  seem  to 
have  behaved  wonderfully  well  to  him.  ..." 

"  I  can't  say  I  think  burning  his  letters  and  cutting 
him  off  from  all  communications  was  exactly  good 
behaviour."  Thus  the  Baronet.  But  the  General 
seemed  doubtful. 

"  We-e-ell ! — I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  quite  say 
that.  Remember  it  was  only  this  poor  girl  that  did 
it,  and  one  sees  her  motive.  Xo — no !  All's  fair  in 
love,  George.  I'm  sorry  for  her,  with  all  my  heart." 

Mrs.    Buckmaster   murmured   under   her   breath, 


348  A  LIKELY  STOKY 

"  What  was  I  saying  to  Mr.  Christopher  ? "  and 
thereon  Mr.  Pelly  felt  in  honour  bound  to  testify 
to  her  truthfulness.  "  Yes — Mrs.  Buckmaster 
thought  so."  Nobody  was  very  definite. 

"  But  did  he  come  here  with  you,  General  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Pelly,  who  was  gradually  toning  down  to 
sane  inquiry-point.  Mixed  replies  said  that  the 
Captain  had  not  been  long  in  the  house.  Lady  Up- 
well  was  interviewing  him — they  were,  in  fact, 
audible  in  the  distance.  The  General  supplied 
further  information. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  Master  Jack  and  I  had  just 
arranged  it  all  beautifully.  I  was  to  come  here  to 
let  it  out  gently  and  not  frighten  Miss  Upwell,  and 
also  to  find  how  the  land  lay.  Because,  you  see, 
after  all,  they  were  not  engaged.  ..." 

"  Oh  no !  They  were  not  engaged."  This  was  a 
kind  of  chorus ;  after  which  the  General  continued : 

"  Anyhow,  Miss  Upwell  might  have  picked  up  with 
some  other  young  fellow.  However,  she  hasn't. 
Well! — I  was  to  come  here  and  take  the  sound- 
ings, and  his  ship  was  to  follow  on;  he  meanwhile 
going  down  to  inflict  a  full  dramatic  surprise  on 
his  own  family  at  Granchester  Towers.  He  said 
their  nerves  were  strong  enough,  and  it  would  do 
them  good.  He  was  to  come  on  as  soon  as  he  could 
unless  he  heard  to  the  contrary.  And  then,  as  he 
was  riding  through  Sampford  Pagnell  on  his  way 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  349 

here,  what  must  he  come  upon  but  a  man  of  his  own 
company,  who  had  been  invalided  home  after 
enteritis,  who  had  been  drinking  and  got  into  a  row  ? 
He  stopped  to  see  him  out  of  his  difficulties — had 
to  go  bail  for  him — and  then  came  on  here.  But 
it  made  him  late.  And  I  should  have  been  here 
sooner  myself,  only  something  went  wrong  with  the 
trains.  It  made  me  so  late  that  I  almost  made  up 
my  mind,  if  Jack  wasn't  here,  to  go  back  to  the  inn 
at  Grewceham,  so  as  not  to  frighten  you  all  out  of 
your  wits." 

"  There's  my  wife  coming  up.  I  wonder  what 
they've  settled."  Thus  the  Baronet. 

Then  her  ladyship  came  in,  and  following  her, 
in  tiptoe  silence,  the  young  soldier  himself.  But 
alas ! — it  was  all  true  about  the  arm.  There  was  the 
loose  right  sleeve,  looped  up  to  his  coat.  But  its 
survivor  was  still  in  evidence,  and  Mr.  Felly,  as 
he  took  the  hand  that  was  left  in  his  own,  wondered 
if  he  was  not  still  dreaming,  so  full  was  his  mind  of 
the  story  of  that  other  hand,  lost  four  hundred  years 
ago.  He  could  not  dismiss  the  picture  from  his 
thoughts ;  and  as  he  stood  there  talking  with  the 
young  soldier,  in  whom  he  could  see  the  saddening 
of  his  terrible  experience  through  all  the  joy  of  his 
return,  he  was  always  conscious  of  its  presence, 
conscious  of  its  eyes  fixed  on  all  that  passed  before 
it — conscious  of  its  comparison  between  the  lot  of 


350  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

its  original,  and  Madeline's.  And  it  made  the  old 
gentleman  feel  quite  eerie  and  uncomfortable.  So 
he  resolved  to  say  good-night,  and  did  so  as  soon  as 
a  pause  came  in  an  earnest  conversation  aside  be- 
tween the  Baronet  and  his  Lady,  who  seemed  to  be 
enforcing  a  view  by  argument.  Mr.  Pelly  heard  the 
last  words : 

"  I  have  told  this  dear,  silly  fellow  Mad  must 
speak  for  herself.  I  won't  say  anything.  .  .  . 
No — not  to-morrow ;  she  had  better  be  told  and  come 
down  now."  Here  a  subcolloquy.  Wouldn't  she 
have  gone  to  bed  ?  Oh  no,  Eliza  said  not.  Besides, 
she  could  slip  something  on.  And  then  the  main- 
stream again.  "  You  must  give  me  a  little  time  to 
tell  her,  you  know.  One  o'clock,  isn't  it?  That 
doesn't  matter.  Just  think  if  it  was  a  party! 
You'll  find  I'm  right,  George."  For  when  Lady 
Upwell  is  pleased  and  excited  she  calls  her  husband 
by  his  Christian  name  without  the  Sir. 

When  she  had  departed  the  General  went  back 
on  a  previous  conversation.  "  But  we  can't  make 
out  yet,  Jack,,  how  we  came  not  to  get  any  wire 
about  it — as  soon  as  it  was  known  you  were  alive. 
It  ought  to  have  been  in  the  papers  a  month 
ago." 

"  Nobody  knows  out  there  yet,  except  Headquar- 
ters. Don't  you  see  ?  As  soon  as  I  was  fit  to  get  on 
a  horse,  I  rode  all  night  across  the  veldt,  and  re- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  351 

ported  myself  in  the  early  morning.  I  begged  them 
to  keep  me  dark  for  a  bit,  and  old  Pipeclay  said  he 
could  manage  it.  .  .  . " 

"  But  why  did  you  want  it  kept  dark  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  directly.  When  I  had  settled  that, 
I  made  a  rush  for  Port  Elizabeth,  and  just  caught 
the  Briton.  Do  you  know,  I  was  so  anxious  nobody 
should  know  anything  about  it  till  I  knew  about 
Madeline  that  I  travelled  as  Captain  Maclagan.  And 
when  I  got  to  Southampton  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Maclagan  and  two  grown-up  daughters  inquiring  for 
ine!  So  really  no  one  knew  anything  at  all  about 
me  till  you  did." 

Then  the  Baronet  would  know  more  of  Jack's  two 
months  of  nursing  at  the  Dutch  farm.  He  thought 
he  could  understand  about  the  girl ;  and  he  wouldn't 
ask  any  questions.  But  why  had  Jack  thoiight  Made- 
line was  engaged  to  Sir  Doyley  Chauncey  ?  He  was 
engaged  to  another  girl  ?  Yes,  he  was ;  but  that  was 
just  it.  It  was  another  girl,  of  the  same  name — 
another  Madeline.  Master  Jack  coloured  and  was 
rather  reserved.  Then  he  spoke: 

"  I'll  tell  you  if  you  like.  I  told  the  General." 
Who  nodded.  "  But  you  mustn't  blame  poor  Chris. 
Remember  she  was  brought  up  a  Boer,  though  she 
had  some  English  education.  It  was  a  newspaper 
notice — Court  and  Fashionable  game — '  A  marriage 
is  arranged  between  Sir  Doyley  Chauncey  of  Limp 


352  A  LIKELY  STORY 

Court,  Gloucestershire,  and  Miss  Madeline  .  .  .' 
and  there  the  paper  was  carefully  cut  away  between 
the  lines  with  scissors — one  can  always  tell  a  scissor 
cut.  I  was  sure  poor  Chris  had  done  it,  for  her  own 
reasons.  I  had  told  her  all  about  Mad.  There  was 
no  humbugging  at  all." 

"  But,  you  silly  boy,"  said  the  General,  "  don't  you 
see  what  I  told  you  is  true?  If  she  had  seen  the 
name  Upwell,  on  the  next  line,  she  wouldn't  have  cut 
it.  Of  course,  she  wouldn't  leave  the  name  Farrant 
— it's  Lina  Farrant,  George ;  old  Farrant's  daughter 
at  Kneversley — man  thinks  Bacon  wrote  Shake- 
speare  " 

"  Of  course  not !  I  see  that  all  now.  But  one 
isn't  so  cool  as  one  might  be  sometimes.  I  got 
quite  upside  down  with  never  hearing,  and,  of  course, 
I  couldn't  write  myself.  I  was  quite  dependent  on 
poor  Chris.  But  I  was  going  to  tell  why  I  wanted 
to  keep  it  dark  that  I  was  alive.  You  see,  if  Mad 
had  got  engaged — to  anyone — well,  I  don't  exactly 
see  how  to  tell  it.  ... "  He  hesitated  a  good  deal. 
"Well,  then  ..." 

"  Well,  then  what  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  I  would  almost  soonest 
not  try  to  talk  about  it.  But  there  was  nothing 
wrong,  you  know,  anywhere." 

"  Oh  no !  Nothing  wrong.  We  quite  under- 
stand." 


A  LIKELY  STOEY  353 

"  Only  when  a  girl  has  nursed  you  like  that — even 
if  .  .  ." 

"  Even  if  you  don't  love  her — is  that  it  ?  " 

Jack  was  relieved.  "  Yes — that's  about  it !  All 
the  same,  if  Madeline  had  been  engaged,  I  might 
have  gone  back  and  married  her — to  do  the  poor 
girl  a  good  turn." 

"  In  spite  of  her  squelching  your  letters  ?  "  said 
Sir  George. 

"  Why,  ye-es !     Look  at  why  she  did  it !  " 

"  There,  they  are  coming  down,"  said  the  General. 
"  Come  along,  George !  We  aren't  wanted  here. 
Good-night,  Jack !  " 

And  then  off  they  go,  leaving  the  young  man 
alone,  pacing  backwards  and  forwards  between 
the  door  and  the  picture.  There  is  but  one  lamp 
left  burning,  on  a  small  table  near,  and  it  is  going 
out.  He  picks  it  up  and  holds  it  nearer  to  see 
the  picture.  But  his  hand  shakes;  one  can  hear 
it  by  the  tinkle  in  its  socket  of  the  ring  that  carries 
an  opal  globe  that  screens  the  light.  And  he  does 
not  see  much,  for  he  can  hear,  a  long  way  off,  Made- 
line's voice  and  her  mother's — a  mere  murmur.  Then 
the  murmur  flashes  up  a  little  louder  for  a  moment, 
and  the  voices  of  the  Baronet  and  the  old  General  are 
bidding  each  other  good-night,  a  long  way  off.  Then 
a  girl's  footstep  on  the  stair. 

The  tinkle  of  the  lamp  stops  as  the  young  soldier 


354  A  LIKELY  STOEY 

puts  it  back  on  its  table.  That  lamp  will  go  out 
very  soon.  But  a  log  on  the  fire,  that  seemed  dead, 
breaks  out  in  a  blaze,  and  all  the  shadows  it  makes 
on  the  walls  leap  and  dance  in  its  flicker.  For  the 
lamp  is  making  haste  to  die. 

That  is  a  timid  touch  upon  the  handle  of  the  door. 
The  young  soldier's  face  of  expectation  is  a  sight  to 
see,  a  sight  to  remember.  His  one  hand  is  bearing 
on  the  table  where  he  placed  the  lamp — almost  as 
though  he  were  for  the  moment  dizzy.  Then,  in  the 
wavering  light  he  can  see  the  loose,  many-flowered 
robe  of  Madeline,  such  a  one  as  she  wears  for  the 
toilette,  and  her  white  face,  and  her  cloud  of  beautiful 
hair  that  is  all  undone.  They  are  all  there  in  the 
leaping  light  of  the  fire,  and  he  hears  her  voice  that 
says,  "  Oh,  Jack — oh,  Jack — oh,  Jack !  "  and  can 
say  no  more.  And  he,  for  his  part,  cannot  speak, 
but  must  needs  grieve — oh,  how  bitterly! — for  the 
loss  of  the  one  strong  arm  that  is  gone.  How  he 
would  have  drawn  her  to  him !  But  he  still  has  one, 
and  it  is  round  her.  And  her  two  white  arms  are 
round  his  neck  as  their  lips  meet,  even  as  those  arms 
in  the  picture  must  have  met  round  the  neck  of 
her  beloved,  even  as  their  lips  must  have  met,  when 
the  dungeon  closed  again  on  the  dead  gaoler  and 
its  prisoners,  in  that  castle  in  the  Apennines,  four 
hundred  years  ago ! 


A  LIKELY  STORY  355 

The  picture  still  hangs  over  the  chimney-shelf  in 
the  library  at  Surley  Stakes,  and  you  may  see  it 
any  time  if  you  are  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mr. 
Stebbings  will  show  it  to  you,  and  give  you  an 
abstract  of  the  cinquecento  in  Italy.  But  he  some- 
times is  a  little  obscure;  so  our  recommendation  to 
you  is,  to  ask  for  Mrs.  Buckmaster,  who  can  never 
tire  of  talking  about  it,  and  who  will  strike  you  as 
being  the  living  image  of  Mrs.  Rouncewell  in  "  Bleak 
House."  Make  her  talk  freely,  and  she  will  tell  you 
how  whenever  "  our  young  lady,"  otherwise  Lady 
Calverley — for  our  friend  Jack  unexpectedly  came 
to  the  inheritance  of  Granchester  Towers  two  years 
since — visits  the  Stakes  she  always  goes  straight  to 
the  picture  and  looks  at  it  before  anything  else. 
And  how  she  tells  little  Madeline,  her  eldest  girl, 
who  is  old  enough  to  understand,  that  pictures  can 
really  see  and  hear;  and,  indeed,  has  told  her  the 
story  of  the  picture  long  ago.  Of  which  the  crown 
and  summit  of  delight  to  this  little  maid  of  four 
seems  to  have  been  its  richness  in  murder.  Chiefest 
of  all,  the  impalement  of  the  old  Raimondi  on 
Marta's  knife.  You  will  gather  that  requests  are 
made  for  a  recital  of  this  part  of  the  story  at  untimely 
moments — coming  home  from  church  on  Sunday, 
and  so  on.  She  is  going  to  tell  it  to  Baby  herself 
as  soon  as  he  is  old  enough.  But  he  isn't  one  yet; 


356  A  LIKELY  STORY 

he  has  to  be  reckoned  in  months.  To  think  of  the 
joys  there  are  before  him ! 

Mrs.  Buckmaster  will  tell  you  too — if  you  work 
her  up  enough — of  the  Dutch  girl,  and  the  miles 
of  veldt  Sir  John  bought  and  gave  her  as  a  wedding 
present.  But  to  get  at  all  this  you  must  first  get 
her  out  of  the  library,  for  while  she  is  there  she  can 
talk  of  little  but  the  picture. 

"  I  always  do  have  the  thought,"  she  will  very 
likely  say,  as  she  has  said  it  to  us,  "  that  the  picture 
can  as  good  as  hear  us  speak,  for  all  the  world  as  if 
it  was  a  Christian,  and  not  an  inanimate  object. 
Because  its  eyes  keep  looking — looking.  Like 
reading  into  your  mind,  whatever  Mr.  Stebbings 
may  say!  We  must  all  think  otherwise,  now  and 
again,  and  Mr.  Stebbings's  qualifications  as  a  butler 
none  can  doubt."  Mrs.  Buckmaster  will  then  tell 
you  of  the  three  different  artists  three  separate 
eminent  critics  have  ascribed  it  to.  But  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  family  incline  to  Boldrini,  on 
the  strength  of  Mr.  Felly's  dream.  To  be  sure, 
no  such  artist  is  known  to  have  existed.  '  But  is 
not  the  same  true  of  the  nipote  del  fratello  di  latte 
del  Bronzino,  whom  the  Coryphaeus  of  these  Art 
Critics  invented  to  father  it  on  ? 

Anyhow,  there  hangs  the  picture,  night  and  day. 
If  it  sees,  it  sees  its  owners  growing  older,  year  by 
year.  It  sees  their  new  grandchildren  appear  mys- 


A  LIKELY  STORY  357 

teriously,  and  each  one  behave  as  if  it  was  the  first 
new  child  in  human  experience.  It  sees  a  one-armed 
soldier  keen  on  organization  of  territorial  forces, 
and  a  beautiful  wife  who  thinks  him  the  greatest  of 
mankind.  And  it  sees,  too,  now  and  again,  a  very- 
old,  old  gentleman  whom  Death  seems  to  overlook 
because  he  is  so  small  and  dry;  whom  you  may  see 
too,  by-the-by,  if  you  look  out  sharp  at  Sotheby's,  or 
Wilkinson's,  or  Puttick's,  or  Simpson's,  or 
Quaritch's,  or  the  Museum  Reading  Room.  Some 
believe  Mr.  Pelly  immortal. 

If  it  hears,  it  hears  the  few  sounds  the  silent 
north  has  to  show  against  the  music  and  the  voices 
of  the  south.  It  can  listen  to  the  endless  torrent 
of  song  from  its  little  brown-bird  outside  above  the 
meadow,  poised  in  the  misty  blue  of  a  coming  day, 
or  the  scanty  measure  of  the  pleading  of  the  nightin- 
gale, heard  from  a  thousand  throats  among  the 
Apennines  in  years  gone  by,  welcome  now  as  a 
memory  that  brings  them  back.  It  can  hear  the 
great  wind  roar  in  the  chimney  at  its  back  through 
the  winter  nights,  and  the  avalanches  in  miniature 
that  come  falling  from  the  roof  above  when  the 
world  awakes  to  fight  against  its  shroud  of  snow. 
But  there  is  one  thing  it  heard  in  our  story  it  may 
listen  for  in  vain — the  bark  of  the  great  dog  Caesar. 
For  Ca?sar  died  of  old  age  at  eighteen,  the  age  at 
which  many  of  us  fancy  we  begin  to  live,  and  the 


358  A  LIKELY  STORY 

great  bark  shakes  the  Universe  no  more.  Other  dogs 
eat  small  sweet  biscuits  now  from  the  hand  of  the 
mistress  who  loved  him  with  precisely  the  same 
previous  examination  of  them,  with  the  identical 
appearance  of  condescension  in  taking  them  at  all. 
But  Caesar  lies — his  mortal  part — in  a  good-sized 
grave  behind  the  lawn,  where  it  can  be  pointed  out 
from  the  library,  and  his  hospis  comesque  corporis 
may  be  among  the  shades,  may  have  met  for  any- 
thing we  know  the  liberated  soul  of  Marta's  poodle, 
and  they  may  have  considered  each  other  senten- 
tiously,  and  parted  company  on  the  worst  of  terms. 
Csesar  never  could  have  stood  that  poodle,  on  this  side. 
But  the  picture  is  there  still,  for  those  who  are 
curious  to  see  it.  Whether  it  would  not  hang  more 
fitly  in  the  little  Castello  in  the  hills,  if  it  could  be 
identified,  is  matter  for  discussion.  If  pictures  could 
really  speak,  what  would  this  one  say  ? 


THE  END 


AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

TEE  present  writer  lias  a  weight  upon  his  conscience. 
But  he  has  no  desire  to  disburden  himself  at  the  expense 
of  the  future  reader  of  his  works.  This  is  addressed 
solely  to  those  whom  he  has  acquired  the  right  to 
apostrophize  as  "My  readers";  and,  indeed,  properly 
speaking,  only  to  such  of  them  as  were  misled,  by  a  too 
generous  appreciation  of  his  first  four  novels,  into  pur- 
chasing his  fifth.  For  he  cannot  free  himself  from  a 
haunting  sense  that  he  was  guilty  of  a  gross  neglect  in 
not  giving  them  fuller  warning  that  the  said  fifth  volume 
was  not  Early  Victorian,  either  in  style  or  substance. 

It  is  well  understood  nowadays — and  it  is  not  for  so 
humble  an  individual  as  the  P.  W.  aforesaid  to  call  in 
question  the  judgments  of  everybody  else — that  each 
living  author,  whether  he  be  painter  or  writer,  shall 
produce  at  suitable  intervals,  preferably  of  twelve 
months,  a  picture  or  volume  on  all  fours  with  the  work 
from  his  hand  which  has  first  attracted  public  atten- 
tion. And  the  P.  W.  cannot  conceal  from  himself  that 
in  publishing,  without  a  solemn  warning  addressed  to 
possible  purchasers,  such  a  novel  as  his  last  ("  An  Affair 
of  Dishonor" :  Henry  Holt  and  Company),  he  has  run 
the  risk  of  incurring  the  execration  or  forgiveness — the 
upshot  is  the  same — of  many  of  his  most  tolerant  and 
patient  readers,  to  remain  on  good  terms  with  whom  is, 
and  always  ivill  be,  his  literary  ambition. 

For  the  "  Affair  "  is  certainly  not  an  Early  Victorian 
story  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  words.  A  certain  lati- 
tude has  been  claimed  by  some  critics  in  the  choice  of 
names  for  the  periods  treated  of  in  the  other  humble  per- 
formances of  its  author;  but  so  far  no  commentator 
has  called  its  epoch — that  of  Charles  II. — "Early 

359 


360         AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

[Victorian."  It  has  been  spoken  of  freely  as  sixteenth 
and  eighteenth  century;  but  that  is  immaterial.  In 
fact,  it  is  difficult  to  resist  the  conviction  that  in  what 
may  be  called  sporting  chronology — a  system  which 
seems  to  have  a  certain  vogue  of  its  own — so  long  as  the 
writer  says  "  century,"  one  number  does  as  well  as  an- 
other to  make,  the  sentence  ring.  The  expression 
''Early  Victorian,"  however,  is  embarrassingly  circum- 
scribed in  its  meaning.  It  cannot  be  applied  at  random 
to  any  period  whatever,  without  danger  of  the  Sciolist, 
or  the  Merest  Tyro,  going  to  the  British  Museum  and 
getting  at  Haydn's  "Dictionary  of  Dates,"  and  catch- 
ing you  out.  Still,  it  does  not  do  to  be  too  positive; 
seeing  that  the  P.  W.  has  here — and  can  show  it  you  in 
the  house — what  seems  a  description  of  the  Restoration 
as  " Pre-Cromwellian."  There  it  is,  before  him,  as  he 
presently  writes  on  the  shiniest  paper  that  ever  made 
an  old  fogy  wish  he  had  been  born  fifty  years  earlier.* 

To  fulfil  the  conditions  which  literary  usage  appears 
to  dictate,  and  to  signalize  his  conformity  with  public 
opinion,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  writer  of  "  An  Affair 
of  Dishonor  " — or,  shall  I  drop  the  thin  veil  adopted  to 
avoid  egotism,  and  say  I  myself? — should  have  made  that 
work  not  only  Early  Victorian,  but  Suburban.  For,  as 
I  understand,  I  am  expected  to  be  Suburban.  This  is 

*  I  will  be  just  and  generous  to  this  writer  simultaneously. 
The  Protector  was  lorn  in  1599.  Pre-Cromwellian  days  were 
the  sixteenth  century,  clearly.  In  the  sixteenth  century  St. 
James's  and  Piccadilly  would  not  be  includable  in  residential 
quarters,  because  the  latter  icas  not  torn  or  thought  of.  If 
by  Pre-Cromwellian  this  ivriter  means  Pre-Commonicealth,  the 
inclusion  of  Piccadilly  in  the  description  of  a  country  girl's 
conception  of  swell  London,  written  a  hundred  years  later, 
when  Piccadilly  was  "  fait  accompli,"  seems  to  me  not  unnat- 
ural. I  am  bound  to  say,  hoicever,  that  ichen  I  first  read  the 
passage  (p.  181) — immediately  after  I  had  written  it — / 
thought  "  those  days  "  meant  the  days  of  the  story.  Analysis 
of  London  topography  would  have  been  out  of  place  in  treating 
of  the  cogitations  of  a-  country  girl  unfamiliar  with  the 
metropolis. 


AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE         361 

Jess  difficult,  as  suburbs  do  not  depend  on  chroniclers, 
like  periods,,  but  remain  to  speak  for  themselves.  One 
knows  when  one  is  being  Suburban.  Among  epochs  one 
treads  gingerly,  like  the  skater  on  ice  that  scarcely  bears 
him.  I  may  take  as  an  instance  a  book  I  wrote,  called 
"  Somehow  Good,"  whose  cradle,  as  it  were,  was  the 
Twopenny  Tube.  The  frequent  reference  to  this  story 
as  an  "Early  Victorian"  tale  has  impressed  me  that 
Early  Victorianism  is  an  abstract  quality,  which  owes  its 
fascination  neither  to  its  earliness,  nor  to  its  epoch.  I 
am  stating  the  case  broadly,  but  as  this  is  entirely  be- 
tween ourselves,  very  great  niceties  are  hardly  called  for. 
We  may  leave  the  Sciolist,  and  the  Merest  Tyro,  to  fight 
about  niceties.  On  the  other  hand,  outside  opinion, 
though  a  little  vague  about  Early  Victorianism,  has  not 
been  inconsistent  about  Suburbanite/.  It  has  shrewdly 
identified,  in  my  first  four  novels,  the  Suburban  char- 
acter of  Tooting,  Balham,  Hampstead,  Putney,  Shep- 
herd's Bush,  and  Wimbledon;  and  I  now  perceive  that 
my  reader  was  entitled  to  expect  Clapham  Junction  or 
Peckham  Rye,  at  least.  Nothing  would  have  pleased  me 
better,  when  writing  my  last  book,  than  to  supply  the 
nearest  practicable  Carolean  equivalent,  had  I  seen  more 
clearly  how  the  land  lay.  However,  it's  done  now  and 
can't  be  helped. 

Broadly  speaking,  then,  non-Victorianity  and  de- 
fective Suburbanity  seem  to  be  responsible  for  my  slump 
in  conformity.  And,  though  I  have  to  go  to  America 
for  distinct  proofs  of  it,  I  am  obliged  to  recognize  sug- 
gestions of  the  same  critical  decision  nearer  home.  The 
-first  three  of  the  following  American  reviews  appeared 
at  intervals  in  the  same  journal,  showing  how  deeply 
the  writer  had  taken  my  delinquency  to  heart: 


"  Probably  written  years  ago,  and  found  in  an  old  desk." 

"  A    totally   uncharacteristic   and   thoroughly    disappointing 

*  historical  romance.'  " 

" '  A  perfectly  good  cat,'  that  I  have  found  in  the  literary 

ash-pan  ....  differs   from   everything   that   has   come   to   us 


362         AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

previously  from  the  author's  pen,  as  lifeless  clay  differs  from 
living  spirit." 

"  Wherein  lies  the  superiority  of  fiction  that  can  give  us 
nothing  better  than  this?  " 

"  It  is  not,  in  itself,  worth  reading  .  .  .  being  an  unpleasant, 
unexciting,  and  unoriginal  experiment  in  historical  romance 
.  .  .  leaving  us  disappointed  of  what  we  hoped  for,  and  unedi- 
fied  by  what  we  get." 

"  The  ghosts  of  '  David  Copperfield '  and  '  Joseph  Vance.' 
'  Alice- for- Short '  and  the  '  Little  Marchioness,'  may  togethf-r 
weep  pale  spirit  tears,  or  nobly  repress  them,  in  the  hope  that 
'  It  Never  can  Happen  Again.' " 

"  We  can  but  hope  for  a  return  from  this  invented  matter 
and  artificial  style  to  an  unabashed  Victorianism,  from  which 
it  should  appear  the  author  is  trying  to  escape." 

There  is  something  spirited  in  a  selection  of  quotations 
which  begins  and  ends  with  such  different  conjectures 
as  to  the  genesis  of  their  subject.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  about  the  earnestness  of  the  hope  expressed  in 
the  last  one,  for  it  is  confirmed  in  the  same  words  by 
more  than  one  American  journal.* 

Another  accusation  against  me  is  that  I  have  given  up 
nice  people,  and  only  write  about  nasty  ones.  Is  this 
true?  I  myself  thought  Lucinda  a  nice  enough  girl, 
particularly  when  she  was  fishing  in  the  sea  for  the 
phosphorescence.  All  the  same,  the  following  seemed 
to  me  quite  a  just  comment,  and  very  well  ivorded: 
"There  must  have  been  something  of  Phaedra  in  Lu- 
cinda for  her  to  act  as  she  did,  unless  we  are  to  revert 
to  the  belief  in  a  baneful  Aphrodite  no  human  will 

*  The  force  of  the  unanimity  of  two  or  three  American  papers 
grows  less  when  their  reader  perceives  the  verbal  identity  of 
the  article  throughout — and  that  their  writers  are  not  onli/ 
unanimous,  but  unicorporeal.  Numbers  are  impressive,  but 
when  they  play  fast  and  loose  with  plurality  in  this  way,  all 
their  edge  is  taken  off. 


AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE          363 

can  resist."  Something  of  Phaedra — but  still,  I  sub- 
mit, not  much,  for  Sir  Oliver  was  passionately  urgent; 
while  Hippolytus — to  borrow  a  phrase  from  Mrs.  Step- 
toe,  a  quarter  where  I  have  unlimited  credit — didn't 
want  to  any  such  a  thing. 

Every  book  has  a  right  to  an  assumption  intrinsically 
improbable,  to  make  the  story  go.  What  a  flat  tragedy 
Hamlet  would  have  been  without  its  fundamental  ghost! 
And  my  "  quidlibet  audendi"  is  a  small  presumption 
compared  with  my  giant  namesake's.  Of  course,  I  have 
no  right  to  the  comparison  unless  you  grant  like 
rights  to  tittlebat  and  leviathan.  "  Semper  fiat  aequa 
potestas,"  for  both.  Indeed,  the  dwarf  needs  artificial 
latitude  more  than  the  giant. 

In  my  capacity  of  tittlebat  in  an  estuary  of 
Leviathan's  great  sea — or,  should  I  not  rather  say,  a 
sandhopper  on  its  coast? — /  have  assumed  that  this 
baneful  Aphrodite  no  human  will  can  resist  had  pos- 
session of  Lucinda;  who  was,  and  continued  to  be,  a, 
very  nice  girl  for  all  that.  Phaedra  was  not  nice,  be- 
cause of  the  attitude  of  Hippolytus,  as  sketched  by  Mrs. 
Steptoe;  and  even  more  because  'of  the  fibs  she  told 
when  she  found  the  young  man  blind  to  the  attractions 
of  his  stepmother.  Lucinda  was  not  a  bit  the  less  nice 
because  she  was  swept  away  by,  absorbed  into,  crushed 
under,  a  passion  of  which  she  only  knew  that  it  was  the 
reverse  of  hate,  and  of  which  few  of  us  know  much 
more.  Indeed,  all  male  persuasions  get  so  very  mixed, 
owing  to  the  Nature  of  Things,  that  they  are  almost 
a  negligible  factor  in  the  solution  of  the  problem.  Now 
and  again,  however,  it  is  hinted  at  by  thoughtful  male 
persons — Shakespeare  and  Browning,  and  the  like.  Read 
th  is,  for  instance : 

"  But,  please  you,  wonder  I  icould  put 
My  check  beneath  that  lady's  foot; 
Rather  than  trample  under  mine 
The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 
And  you  shall  see  how  the  Devil  spends 
A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends. 


364         AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

"  I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 
This  garret,  crowned  with  Love's  best  crown, 
And  feasted  with  Love's  perfect  feast 
To  think  I  kill  for  her  at  least 
Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 
Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim." 


Perhaps  you  will  say  that  no  ladylike,  well  brought  up 
girl,  ever  feels  so  explosive.  About  a  Man  too — the  idea! 
But  for  my  part,  I  don't  see  that  Browning's  chap  need 
have  been  a  nasty  chap.  Nevertheless,  my  sense  of  the 
proprieties — which  is  keen — compels  me  to  admit  that  if 
I  had  a  daughter,  and  she  were  to  go  on  like  that,  I 
should  feel  it  my  duty  to  point  out  to  her  that  if  she 
continued  to  do  so,  she  would  run  the  risk  of  being  taken 
for  a  suffragette,  or  something.  I  might  get  no  farther, 
because  I  word  things  badly. 

Lucinda,  you  see,  might  have  gone  on  like  that  about 
Oliver;  only  no  doubt  the  memory  of  old  precepts  hung 
about  her,  and  acted  as  I  trust  my  remonstrance  would 
have  done  in  the  case  of  my  hypothetical  daughter. 
Anyhow,  I  do  think  that  the  time-honoured  usage  which 
keeps  girls  as  ignorant  of  life  as  possible,  so  that  they 
shall  be  docile  when  a  judicious  Hymen  offers  them  a 
marriage  with  a  suitable  "parti,"  ought  at  least,  as  a 
set-off,  to  go  hand-in-hand  with  leniency  towards  this  ig- 
norance when  it  betrays  its  possessor  into  an  indiscretion 
she  has  no  means  of  gauging  the  dangers  of.  For  my 
belief  is  that  the  wickedness  of  her  action  seemed  purely 
academical  to  Lucinda.  And  Oliver  knew  how  to  man- 
age cases  of  this  sort,  bless  you! 

As  for  him,  I  readily  admit  that  he  was  not  nice,  but  I 
take  the  testimonials  to  his  nastiness  as  complimentary. 
When  an  Italian  audience  pelts  logo  with  rotten  eggs, 
it  is  accepted  by  the  actor  as  heartfelt  praise.  And  you 
must  have  Devils,  as  well  as  Fairies,  when  it's  in  a 
Pantomime,  as  we  all  know.  An  unhappy  author  whom 
lack  of  material  for  copy  has  nearly  qualified  for  Earls- 


AX  APOLOGY  .IX  CONFIDENCE         365 

wood  cannot  go  on  for  ever  writing  about  good  people. 
He  must  have  a  villain,  please,  sooner  or  later! 

Nevertheless,  some  of  my  correspondents  want  to 
deprive  me  of  this  innocent  luxury.  Such  an  appeal 
as  the  following  makes  me  feel  that  I  may  have  to  "  leave 
the  killing  out,  when  all  is  done." 

"Dear  sir,  can  any  'success'  that  meets  your  latest  story 
compensate  for  the  pain,  and — so  personal  have  you  made 
our  relations  to  you — the  humiliation  so  many  of  us  feelf 

"  Why  leave  the  heights — the  sunny  hill-slopes — where  we 
met  you  as  a  icise,  sweet  older  brother,  and  lingered  longt 
after  your  story  teas  over,  icith  stilled  and  strengthened 
hearts  f 

"  I  am  sure  none  of  us  is  happier,  and  none  certainly  is 
better  for  breathing  the  sickening  air  into  which  you  have 
led  us.  .  .  ." 

Now,  if  I  had  published  this  story  after  a  manifesto 
warning,  cautioning,  and  earnestly  entreating  all  read- 
ers who  expected  it  to  be  Victorian  and  Suburban  to  Iceep 
their  money  in  their  pockets,  I  should  not  be  feeling,  as 
I  do  now,  that  the  writer  of  the  above  letter  had  been 
entrapped  into  reading  it  under  false  pretences.  I  can- 
only  offer  humble  and  heartfelt  apology  to  the  writers, 
English  as  well  as  American,  of  the  many  letters  I  have 
received,  practically  of  the  same  tenor  as  the  above. 

But  I  am  left  in  a  dilemma.  I  cannot  consider  my- 
self bound  to  make  my  next  net  volume  exclusively 
"Victorian,  Suburban,  Icindly,  gossipy,  button-holy — I 
rather  like  that  ivord — in  the  face  of  some  very  strong 
encouragements  to  have  another  go-in  at  Barts,  or  their 
equivalents,  of  evil  dispositions,  or,  perhaps  I  should  say, 
of  Mediceval  dispositions;  for  I  am  countenanced  by 
many  sporting  chronologists  in  attaching  a  meaning  to 
this  word  at  war  with  my  boyish  understanding  of  it, 
which  stopped  the  "  moyen  age "  at  the  Reformation. 
However,  it  doesn't  matter;  this  is  all  in  confidence.  I 
cannot  very  well  cite  these  encouragements.  They  form 
part  of  a  most  liberal  and  intelligent  series  of  reviews — 
not  unmixed  praise  by  any  means — which  I  am  sticking 


366         AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

at  odd  times  in  a  big  book,  to  which  I  shall  have  to 
allude  more  particularly  presently.  It  is  enough  for  us 
now  that  several  of  them  speaJc  of  "An  Affair  of  Dis- 
honor" as  its  author's  best  production,  so  far.  After 
that  I  must  really  be  Mediaeval,  or  Marry-come-up,  or 
whatever  one  ought  to  call  it,  a  little  more.  There  is  no 
way  out. 

A  reviewer  of  an  isolated  and  forcible  genius  also  has 
a  share  in  inducing  me  to  try  the  same  line  again.  I 
want  to  be  reviewed  by  him,  please,  as  often  as  possible. 
There  is  a  healthy  and  bracing  tone  in  his  lightest  word. 
Listen: 

'"  A  story-teller  ought  to  be  able  to  tell  a  story.  There  is 
a  story  in  '  An  Affair  of  Dishonor,'  but  I  pity  the  reader  icho 
tries  to  excavate  it.  He  must  tie  a  wet  towel  round  his  head, 
and  clench  his  teeth,  and  prepare  to  face  hours  of  digging 
and  scraping.  And  ichen  he  has  excavated  the  story  from 
the  heavy  clay  of  the  style,  he  ivill  ask  why  the  author  took 
so  much  trouble  to  bury  it  so  deep  in  affectation.  .  .  .  Mr. 
De  Morgan  tries  to  copy  the  language  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, but  he  copies  it  like  a  schoolboy.  ...  To  make  the 
mess  complete,  the  last  chapter  is  taken  from  a  manuscript. 

"If  Mr.  De  Morgan  desired  to  imitate  Esmond  he  ought 
to  have  stuck  to  the  Esmond  method.  If  he  wished  to  tell 
a  melodramatic  story  he  ought  to  have  told  it  plainly.  The 
story  is  stale.  ...  7  suppose  the  rake  is  meant  to  be  a  Love- 
lace, and  Lucinda  a  Clarissa  Harloive.  The  whole  thing  is 
artificial,  there  is  no  illusion,  and  the  characters  are  all  sticks. 
The  battle  is  bad,  and  the  duels  are  bad,  and  the  dialogue  is 
very  bad.  And  how  it  bores  one !  " 

Can  you  wonder  that  I  look  forward  to  being  reviewed 
again  by  this  gentleman  ?  I  shall  feel  an  eager  anticipa- 
tion as  I  search  among  my  press-cuttings,  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  present  volume,  for  the  name  of  his  half- 
penny journal.  I  can  fancy  his  indignation  at  a  pic- 
ture that  speaks — a  completes  mess  even  tlian  the 
dragging  in  of  a  manuscript  at  the  end  of  Lucinda! 
This  was  shocking — at  least,  it  must  have  been,  as  other- 
wise  this  gentleman  would  have  been  talking  nonsense. 

But  my  button-holed  readers  must  be  expecting  me  to 


AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE         367 

come  to  the  point.  It  is  this.  "A  Likely  Story  "is  an 
honest,  if  a  humble,  attempt  to  satisfy  all  parties — 
except,  indeed,  the  last  party  just  cited,  whom  I  should 
be  sorry  to  satisfy.  It  combines  on  one  canvas  the 
story  of  a  family  incident  that  is  purely  Victorian — 
though,  alas,  the  era  came  to  an  end  so  shortly  after- 
ward— with  another,  of  the  Italian  cinquecento,  with- 
out making  any  further  demand  on  human  powers 
of  belief  than  that  a  picture  is  made  to  talk.  I  have 
also  introduced  a  very  pretty  suburb,  Coombe,  as  the 
residence  of  the  earliest  Victorian  aunt,  to  my  thinking, 
that  my  pen  is  responsible  for.  I  like  this  way  of  shift" 
ing  the  responsibility  off  my  own  shoulders. 

However,  it  is  fair  to  admit  that  the  expedient  of 
making  the  photographic  copy  talk,  as  well  as  the 
original,  may  outrage  the  sense  of  probability  of  some  of 
my  more  matter-of-fact  readers.  I  shall  be  sorry,  be- 
cause modification  in  a  second  edition  will  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible. 

If  I  do  not  succeed  in  pleasing  both  sections  of  my 
Public,  I  am  at  least  certain  of  the  approval  of  a  very 
large  number  of  readers  who  have  found  my  previous 
productions  too  long.  The  foregoing  is  even  less  than 
the  100,000  words  which  seem  to  recommend  themselves 
as  the  right  length,  "  per  se,"  for  a  net  volume.  A  slump 
from  a  quarter  to  a  tenth  of  a  million  words  marks  a 
powerful  self-restraint  on  the  part  of  my  "  cacoethes 
scribendi" — an  essay  towards  conformity  which  seems 
to  me  to  deserve  recognition.  I  do  not  understand  that 
anyone  has,  so  far,  propounded  the  doctrine  that  a  story 
cannot  be  too  short.  If  that  were  so  the  author  would 
save  himself  a  world  of  trouble  by  emulating  the  example 
of  the  unknown  author  of  the  shortest  work  of  its  kind 
on  record — the  biography  of  St.  James  the  Less.  But 
perhaps  I  am  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Jackaminory 
and  the  Apostle  were  one  and  the  same  personage. 

I  am  personally  more  interested  in  the  length  of  re- 
views than  of  books,  in  connection  with  the  volume  men- 
tioned just  now,  in  which  I  am  collecting  my  press- 


368         AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

cuttings.  The  page  of  this  volume  is  fourteen  inches 
by  eight,  and  three  reviews  thirteen  inches  long  exactly 
cover  it,  leaving  a  little  space  for  the  name  of  the  jour- 
nal and  the  date.  It  is  too  small  to  accommodate  more 
than  three  normal  press  columns  in  the  width.  So  that  a 
review  thirteen  inches  long  is  from  my  point  of  view 
the  most  suitable  for  my  books.  Of  course,  twenty-six 
and  thirty-nine  indies  are  equally  acceptable.  The  dif- 
ficulty only  begins  when  accommodation  of  fractions  be- 
comes necessary.  I  account  that  review  ill-written  which 
perplexes  me  with  the  need  for  such  accommodation. 

I  am  prepared  to  accept  six  shilling  volumes  of 
100,000  words,  with  reviews  thirteen  inches  long,  as  the 
true  and  perfect  image  of  Literature  indeed. 

Man,  male  and  female,  is  a  reading  animal:  or,  what 
is  perhaps  more  to  the  purpose,  believes  himself  one. 
He  may  be  divided  into  two  classes — the  Studious 
Reader  and  the  General  Reader.  The  former  never 
sJcims  books.  If  he  dips  into  them  at  all  he  takes  long 
dips,  and  when  lie  comes  out,  leaves  a  bookmark  in  to 
show  where  he  was,  or  which  was  his  machine.  He  goes 
steadily  and  earnestly  through  the  last,  last,  last  word 
of  Scientific  thought — say,  for  instance,  "An  Essay 
towards  a  fuller  Analysis  of  the  Correlation  between 
Force,  Matter  and  Motion,  with  especial  reference  to 
their  relations  in  Poly  dimensional  Space  " — and  wants 
to  just  finish  a  marginal  note  upon  it  in  pencil  when  the 
dinner-gong  gets  a  rumble.  He  knits  his  brows  and 
jumps  and  snorts  when  he  peruses  a  powerful  criticism, 
with  antitheses  and  things.  He  very  often  thinks  he 
will  buy  that  book,  only  he  must  just  glance  at  it  again 
before  he  sends  the  order.  Nevertheless,  his  relations 
with  Fiction  lack  cordiality.  They  do  not  go,  on  his 
part,  beyond  picking  up  the  last  net  volume  from  the 
drawing-room  table,  reading  the  title  aloud,  and  putting 
it  down  again.  And  he  only  does  this  because  it's  there, 
and  looks  new.  He  wouldn't  complain  if  no  Fiction 
came  into  the  house  at  all. 


AN  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE         369 

Not  so  the  General  Reader.  His  theory  of  Literature 
is  entirely  different.  Broadly  speaking,  it  is  this:  that 
books  are  meant  to  be  read,  up  to  a  certain  point,  but 
that,  as  soon  as  that  point  is  reached,  it  is  desirable 
that  they  should  be  returned  to  Mudie's  or  the  "  Times," 
and  something  else  got,  with  a  little  less  prosywozying 
in  it;  and  bounceable  young  women  who  ought  to  know 
better.,  but  don't;  and  detectives  if  possible,  and  motors 
and  aeroplanes  anyhow.  The  exact  definition  of  this 
point  is  difficult,  but  it  lies  somewhere  about  the  region 
in  which  the  General  Reader  gets  bored  to  death,  and 
can't  stand  this  dam  rot  any  longer.  It  does  not  matter 
to  him  that  he  may  be  the  loser  by  his  abrupt  decisions; 
if  anything,  he  takes  an  unnatural  pleasure  in  straining 
the  capacity  of  his  Circulating  Library  to  the  full  ex- 
tent of  its  contract.  He  has  paid  his  subscription,  and 
may  change  whenever  he  likes.  That's  the  bargain,  and 
no  humbugging! 

So  he  goes  on  slap-dashing  about,  shuttle-cocking  back 
every  new  delivery,  saying  "Pish!"  over  this  and 
"Tush/"  about  that;  writing  short  comments  on 
margins  such  as,  "  Vieux  jeu!"  or  "No  Woman 
would";  only  occasionally  going  carefully  through  a 
book  to  find  the  chapter  that  reviewer-fellow  said  was 
quite  unfit  for  the  girls  to  read,  because  one  really  ought 
to  keep  an  eye  on  what  comes  into  the  house  nowadays. 
His  decisions  can,  however,  scarcely  be  accepted  as  un- 
failing guides  to  a  just  discrimination  of  literary  merit, 
as  those  who  know  him  are  never  tired  of  insisting  on  his 
inattentive  habits,  his  paroxysms  of  electric  suddenness 
in  action,  and,  above  all,,  his  insatiable  thirst  for  some- 
thing new.  As  for  me,  I  am  like  Charles  Lamb,  when 
he  was  told  there  was  a  gentleman  in  the  room  who  ad- 
mired "Paradise  Regained."  I  should  like  to  feel  his 
bumps. 

Nevertheless,  he  is  a  personage  for  whom  Authors  have 
a  great  and  natural  respect.  He  is  so  numerous!  And 
just  think  what  fun  it  would  be  if  each  of  him  bought  a 
copy  of  each  of  one's  immortal  works!  Consequently,  I 


370         AX  APOLOGY  IN  CONFIDENCE 

ivish  to  consult  his  liking,  and  am  prepared — within  rea- 
son— to  defer  to  his  opinion  of  what  length  a  book  ought 
to  be.  It  is  no  doubt  quite  otherwise  with  those  Authors 
icho  may  be  said  to  belong  to  the  school  of  Inspiration- 
alism — really  one  feels  quite  Modern,  writing  such  a 
word — who  claim  for  each  of  their  stories  the  position  or 
character  of  a  sneeze — an  automatic  action  which  its 
victim,  perpetrator,  executant,  interpreter,  proprietor, 
promoter,  parent,  mover,  seconder — or  whatever  we 
choose  to  call  him — has  absolutely  no  control  over. 

But  I  am  wandering  away  from  the  point  of  this 
apology,  which  is  really  to  say  "  peccavi,"  and,  please,  I 
won't  do  so  any  more.  So  far,  that  is,  as  is  practicable. 
If  I  drop  into  a  prehistoric  problem  novel,  by  way  of  a 
change,  or  have  a  try  at  an  autobiography  of  Queen 
Nitocris — just  possibilities  at  random — I  will  do  what  I 
can  to  head  ojf  readers  who  want  one  sort  only,  and 
know  which  it  is. 

As  for  the  foregoing  story,  it  is  just  as  Victorian  as 
it  is  anything  else,  though  not,  perhaps,  Early  enough  to 
give  entire  satisfaction.  One  can't  expect  everything, 
in  this  imperfect  world.  To  my  thinking  the  shortness 
of  the  story  should  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  JOSEPH  VANCE 

A  touching  story,  yet  full  of  humor,  of  life-long  love  and 
heroic  sacrifice.  While  the  scene  is  mostly  in  and  near  the 
London  of  the  fifties,  there  are  some  telling  glimpses  of 
Italy,  where  the  author  lives  much  of  the  time  ($1.75). 

"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century." — LEWIS  MELVILLE  in 
New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  If  the  reader  likes  both  '  David  Copperfield  '  and  '  Peter  Ibbetson,' 
he  can  find  the  two  books  in  this  one." — The  Independent, 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  ALJCE-FOR-SHORT 

This  might  paradoxically  be  called  a  genial  ghost-and- 
murder  story,  yet  humor  and  humanity  again  dominate,  and 
the  most  striking  element  is  the  touching  love  story  of  an 
unsuccessful  man.  The  reappearance  in  Nineteenth  Century 
London  of  the  long-buried  past,  and  a  remarkable  case  ot 
suspended  memory,  give  the  dramatic  background  ($1.75). 

"  Really  worth  reading  and  praising  .  .  .  will  be  hailed  as  a  master- 
piece. If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence, 
a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De 
Morgan." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  the  Victorian  age  itself  that  speaks  in  those  rich,  interesting, 
over-crowded  books.  .  .  .  Will  be  remembered  as  Dickens'  novels  are 
remembered." — Springfield  Republican. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

The  purpose  and  feeling  of  this  novel  are  intense,  yet  it  is 
all  mellowed  by  humor,  and  it  contains  perhaps  the  author's 
freshest  and  most  sympathetic  story  of  young  love.  Through- 
out its  pages  the  "  God  be  praised  evil  has  turned  to  good  " 
of  the  old  Major  rings  like  a  trumpet  call  of  hope.  This 
story  of  to-day  tells  of  a  triumph  of  courage  and  devotion 

($i-75). 

"  A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction." — The  Nation. 

"  Our  older  novelists  (Dickens  and  Thackeray)  will  have  to  look  to 
their  laurels,  for  the  new  one  is  fast  proving  himself  their  equal.  A 
higher  quality  of  enjoyment  than  is  derivable  from  the  work  of  any 
other  novelist  now  living  and  active  in  either  England  or  America." — 
The  Dial. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  (vii' 10)  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

This  novel  turns  on  a  strange  marital  complication,  and  is 
notable  for  two  remarkable  women  characters,  the  pathetic 
girl  Lizarann  and  the  beautiful  Judith  Arkroyd,  with  her 
stage  ambitions.  Lizarann's  father,  Blind  Jim,  is  very  ap- 
pealingly  drawn,  and  shows  rare  courage  and  devotion  despite 
cruel  handicaps.  There  are  strong  dramatic  episodes,  and 
the  author's  inevitable  humor  and  optimism  ($1.75). 

"  De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is 
than  the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years." — Independent. 

"  There  has  been  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  our  day.  The  best  of 
our  contemporary  novelists  ...  do  not  so  come  home  to  our  business 
and  our  bosoms  .  .  .  his  method  ...  is  very  different  in  most 
important  respects  from  that  of  Dickens.  He  is  far  less  the  showman, 
the  dashing  prestidigitator  .  .  .  more  like  Thackeray  .  .  .  precisely 
what  the  most  '  modern  '  novelists  are  striving  for — for  the  most  part 
in  vain  .  .  .  most  enchanting  .  .  .  infinitely  lovable  and  pathetic."-— 
The  Nation. 

"  Another  long  delightful  voyage  with  the  best  English  company  .  .  . 
from  Dukes  to  blind  beggars  .  .  .  you  could  make  out  a  very  good 
case  for  handsome  Judith  Arkroyd  as  an  up-to-date  Ethel  Newcome 
.  .  .  the  stuff  that  tears  in  hardened  and  careless  hearts  are  made 
of  ...  singularly  perceiving,  mellow,  wise,  charitable,  humorous 
.  .  .  a  plot  as  well  defined  as  if  it  were  a  French  farce." — The  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

"  The  characters  of  Blind  Jim  and  Lizarann  are  wonderful — worthy 
of  Dickens  at  his  best." — Professor  WILLIAM  LYON  PHELVS,  of  Yale, 
author  of  "  Essays  on  Modern  Novelists." 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  dramatic  story  of  England  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
It  commences  with  a  fatal  duel,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  its 
remarkable  author.  The  movement  is  fairly  rapid,  and  the 
narrative  absorbing,  with  occasional  glints  of  humor  ($1.75). 


»**  A  thirty-two   page  illustrated   leaflet  about   Mr.    De   Morgan,   with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


ROMAIN  HOLLAND'S 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN       •        MORNING       •        YOUTH       •        REVOLT 

Translated   by   GILBERT   CANNAN. 


600  pp.    $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

It  commences  with  vivid  episodes  of  this  musician's  child- 
hood, his  fears,  fancies,  and  troubles,  and  his  almost  uncanny 
musical  sense.  He  plays  before  the  Grand  Duke  at  seven, 
but  he  is  destined  for  greater  things.  An  idol  of  the  hour,  in 
some  ways  suggesting  Richard  Strauss,  tries  in  vain  to  wreck 
his  faith  in  his  career.  Early  love  episodes  follow,  and  at  the 
close  the  hero,  like  Wagner,  has  to  fly,  a  hopeful  exile. 

"'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius.'  .  .  .  Has  the  time  come  for  the  aoth 
century  to  uncover  before  a  master  work  ?  A  book  as  big,  as  elemental,  as 
original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to-day." — Springfield  Republican. 
(Entire  notice  on  application.) 

"  The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or  from  any 
other  European  country,  in  a  decade.  .  .  .  Highly  commendable  and 
effective  translation  .  .  .  the  story  moves  at  a  rapid  pace.  It  never 
lags."— E.  F.  Edgett  in  Boston  Transcript. 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET-PLACE 
ANTOINETTE         •         THE  HOUSE 

473  PP-     $i-5O  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

A  writer  in  the  London  Daily  Mail  comments  on  the 
French  volumes  here  translated  as  follows : — "  In  '  The  Mar- 
ket-Place,'  we  are  with  the  hero  in  his  attempt  to  earn  his 
living  and  to  conquer  Paris.  The  author  introduces  us  to 
the  numberless  '  society '  circles  in  Paris  and  all  the  cliques 
of  so-called  musicians  in  pages  of  superb  and  bitter  irony 
and  poetic  fire.  Christophe  becomes  famous.  In  the  next 
volume,  Antoinette  is  the  sister  of  Christophe's  great  friend, 
Olivier.  She  loves  Christophe.  .  .  .  This,  the  best  volume 
of  the  series,  is  a  flawless  gem.  '  The  House '  introduces  us 
to  the  friends  and  enemies  of  the  young  musician.  They 
gravitate  around  Christophe  and  Olivier,  amid  the  noisy  and 
enigmatic  whirl  of  Parisian  life." 

It  is  worth  adding  that  toward  the  close  of  this  book  a 
war-cloud  appears  between  France  and  Germany.  Chris- 
tophe, with  Olivier,  visits  his  mother  and  his  Fatherland. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Books  in  Which  to  Renew  One's  Youth 


INEZ  HAYNES  GILLMORE'S  PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.     $1.50. 

Phoebe  and  Ernest  Martin,  who  lately  created  such  en- 
thusiasm among  readers  of  the  American  Magazine,  here 
appear  with  new  incidents  which  make  this  book  a  complete 
chronicle  of  the  typical  American  brother  and  sister  of  high 
school  age. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children. 

Youths  and  maidens  will  understand  Phoebe  and  Ernest's 
experiences  and  problems. 

"Attracted  delighted  attention  in  the  course  of  its  serial  publication. 
Sentiment  and  humor  are  deftly  mingled  in  this  clever  book." — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 


JOHN  MATTER'S  ONCE 

izrno.     $1.20  net  ;  by  mail,  $1.30. 

An  idyl  of  boy  and  girl  life  in  a  small  town  in  the  Middle 
West,  intended  for  grown-ups  as  a  guide  to  pleasant  recollec- 
tions. 

"  If  you  would  be  taken  back  to  your  childhood  days  read  this  charm- 
ing story  of  the  happy  larks  of  these  real  children.  — Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

"  Pleasant  reminders  of  childish  incidents  which  will  awaken  memories 
in  all  his  readers.  .  .  .  His  youngsters  have  individuality  of  their 
own."— New  York  Sun. 

ALGERNON  BLACKWELL'S  THE  EDUCATION  OF 
UNCLE  PAUL 

By  the  author  of  "  JOHN  SILENCE."    $1.50. 

Boston  Transcript  :  "Quite  the  most  unusual  book  of  the  year.  .  .  . 
Such  an  outline  is  powerless  to  suggest  the  charm  of  the  book.  The  in- 
tercourse of  children,  animals  and  uncle  is  compounded  of  humor, 
affection,  the  subtlest  of  observation  and  the  most  convincing  fan- 
tasy. .  .  .  Nixie  is  so  utterly  captivating  .  .  .  gratefully  the  reader 
treads  the  mysterious  ways  with  them  .  .  .  many  a  subtle  experience,  a 
riot  of  imagination  .  .  .  the  beauty  of  conception  and  the  quality  of 
its  exquisite  execution."  (Entire  notice  on  application  to  the  publishers.) 


Just  Published 
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H.  RIDER  HAGGARD'S 
THE  MAHATMA  AND  THE  HARE 

A  Dream  Story.  With  12  full-page  illustrations  by  H.  M. 
BROCK  and  W.  T.  HORTON.  I2mo.  $1.00  net;  by  mail, 
$1.10. 

A  fantasy  dealing  with  the  rights  of  animals.  Unusual 
quality  and  feeling  lift  this  story,  of  a  hare  and  his  life  in 
the  hunting  preserve,  into  the  company  of  the  very  best 
animal  stories. 


GARDNER  HUNTING'S 
A  HAND  IN  THE  GAME 

With   frontispiece  in  color  by   J.    N.  .EDMOND  MARCHAND. 
$1.25  net;  by  mail,  $1.35. 

An  American  love  and  adventure  story  of  to-day.  The 
author  makes  the  reader  see  his  heroine's  beauty  and  admire 
her  spirit,  while  he  gains  hearty  sympathy  for  the  brave 
though  modest  hero. 

An  April  snowball  breaks  a  way  for  this  man  into  a  lovely 
girl's  life  and  makes  opportunity  for  him  to  fight  for  her 
against  an  enemy  who  holds  a  strangely  cruel  weapon.  A 
blind  mystery  and  the  deadly  hatred  of  a  cornered  foe  make 
the  struggle  a  pitiless  one,  but  even  in  deadliest  peril,  the 
hero  scorns  to  go  armed.  Finally  love  plays  the  lover  an 
amazing  trick  which  turns  bitter  into  sweet. 


HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  330  STBEET  NEW  YORK 


HENRY  WILLIAMS'S  THE  UNITED  STATES  NAVY 

A  Handbook. 

By  HENRY  WILLIAMS,  Naval  Constructor,  U.  S.  Navy.     With 

32  full-page  illustrations  and  a  number  in  the  text.     8vo. 

Probable  price,  $1.50  net.    (October.') 

This  is  a  neat,  crisp,  matter-of-fact  account  of  our  Navy, 
with  an  occasional  illuminating  anecdote  of  famous  court- 
martials  and  such.  It  has  been  passed  by  high  authorities 
and  its  publication  officially  sanctioned.  The  Contents  in- 
cludes:  Naval  History— The  Navy's  Organization — The 
Navy's  Personnel — Man-of-War  in  Commission— Classes  of 
Ships  in  the  Navy — Description— High  Explosives;  Tor- 
pedoes; Mines;  Aeroplanes— Designing  and  Building  a  War- 
ship; Dry  Docks — The  National  Defense. 


Illustrated  by  the  Author.     8vo.     $2.00  net;  by  mail,  $2.15. 

(Circular  on  application.) 

A  trained  observer's  graphic  description  of  the  English 
Law  Courts,  of  their  ancient  customs  yet  up-to-date  methods; 
of  the  lives  and  activities  of  the  modern  barrister  and  solicitor 
— the  "IK.  C.,"  the  "Junior,"  the  "  Devil" — and  of  the  elab- 
orate etiquette,  perpetuated  by  the  Inns  of  Court,  which  still 
inflexibly  rules  them,  despite  the  tendencies  of  the  times  and 
growth  of  socialism. 

Nation : — "  The  style  of  narrative,  the  conciseness  of  statement,  and 
the  wealth  of  allusion  make  this  book  one  which  certainly  the  lawyer, 
and  probably  many  laymen,  will  wish  to  finish  at  one  sitting,  and  not 
hurriedly.  .  .  .  We  hope  to  see  the  author  appear  again,  and  as  a 
Philadelphia  Lawyer  at  Home." 

Bookman:— "This  quiet  recital  of  facts  ought  of  itself  to  create  a 
revolution  in  this  country.  .  .  .  He  disclaims  any  intention  of  entering 
upon  odious  comparisons.  .  .  .  When  the  Bar  of  America  is  aroused  to 
the  necessity  of  reform  it  will  find  these  observations  ...  a  mine  of 
well-digested  information  and  helpful  suggestions." 

Dial:—"  His  interesting  account  of  the  trial  and  conviction  of  Madar 
La  Dhingra." 

New  York  Evening  Sun  : — "  A  suitable  mixture  of  anecdote  and  gen- 
eralization to  give  the  reader  a  pleasant  and  clear  idea  of  English  courts, 
their  ways  and  plan.  .  .  .  One  of  the  most  valuable  chapters  relates  to 
the  discipline  of  the  bar." 

Philadelphia  Press:— •"  A  vast  deal  of  useful  and  often  fascinating 
information.  .  .  .  An  eminently  readable  volume,  which,  although  de- 
signed primarily  for  the  lay  reader,  has  already  elicited  hearty  com- 
mendation from  not  a  few  leaders  of  the  profession.  .  .  .  American 
lawyers  are  beginning  to  see  that  much  may  be  learned  from  modern 
English  practice.  .  .  .  On  the  subject  of  the  ethics  of  the  English  bar 
Mr.  Learning  has  much  to  say  that  is  worth  careful  perusal." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  34  WEST  330  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


KREHBIEL'S  CHAPTERS  OF  OPERA 

By  the  musical  critic  of  the  Neto  York  Tribune,  author  of 
44  Studies  in  the  Wagnerian  Drama,"  "How  to  Listen  to  Music," 
etc.  With  over  60  full-page  illustrations.  Second  printing,  revised. 
435  PP.,  8 vo.  $3.50  net.  By  mail,  $3.72.  (Illustrated  circular  on 
application.) 

Mr.  Krehbiel's  most  important  book.  The  first  seven  chapters 
deal  with  the  earliest  operatic  performances  in  New  York.  Then 
follows  a  brilliant  account  of  the  first  quarter-century  of  the  Metro- 
politan, 1883-1908.  He  tells  how  Abbey's  first  disastrous  Italian 
season  was  followed  by  seven  seasons  of  German  Opera  under 
Leopold  Damrosch  and  Stanton,  how  this  was  temporarily  eclipsed 
by  French  and  Italian,  and  then  returned  to  dwell  with  them  in 
harmony,  thanks  to  Walter  Damrosch's  brilliant  crusade, — also  of 
the  burning  of  the  opera  house,  the  vicissitudes  of  the  American 
Opera  Company,  the  coming  and  passing  of  Grau  and  Conried.  and 
.finally  the  opening  of  Oscar  Hammerstein's  Manhattan  Opera  House 
and  the  first  two  seasons  therein,  1906-08. 

"  The  most  complete  and  authoritative  .  .  .  pre-eminently  the  man  to 
write  the  book  .  .  .  full  of  the  spirit  of  discerning  criticism  .  .  .  De- 
lightfully engaging  manner,  with  humor,  allusiveness  and  an  abundance  of 
the  personal  note." — Richard  Aldrich  in  New  York  Times  Review. 

ROMAIN  ROLLAND'S   JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN    .    MORNING    .    TODTH    .    REVOLT 
600  pp.     $1.50  net  ;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

It  commences  with  the  musician's  childhood,  his  fears,  fancies, 
and  troubles,  and  his  almost  uncanny  musical  sense.  He  plays  be- 
fore the  Grand  Duke  at  seven,  but  he  is  destined  for  greater  things. 
An  idol  of  the  hour,  in  some  ways  suggesting  Richard  Strauss,  tries 
in  vain  to  wreck  his  faith  in  his  career.  Early  love  episodes  follow, 
and  after  a  dramatic  climax,  the  hero,  like  Wagner,  has  to  fly,  a 
hopeful  exile. 

"  As  big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to- 
day."— Springfield  Republican. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or  from 
any  other  European  country,  in  a  decade.  .  .  .  Highly  commendable  and 
effective  translation  .  .  .  the  story  moves  at  a  rapid  pace.  It  never  lags." 
— Boston  Transcript. 

"  He  embraces  with  a  loving  understanding  the  seven  ages  of  man.  ... 
It  not  only  contains  a  picture  of  contemporary  musical  life,  but  holds  a  mes- 
sage bearing  on  our  conception  of  life  and  art.  It  presents  genius  for  once 
without  the  morbid  features  that  obscure  its  essence." — New  York  Timet 
Review. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


SIXTH  EDITION,    ENLARGED    AND    WITH    PORTRAITS 

HALE'S    DRAMATISTS    OF    TO-DAY 

ROSTAND,     HAUPTMANN,     SUDERMANN, 
PINERO,  SHAW,  PHILLIPS,  MAETERLINCK 

By  PROF.   EDWARD   EVERETT   HALE,  JR.,  of  Union  College. 
With  gilt  top,  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.60. 

Since  this  work  first  appeared  in  1905,  Maeterlinck's  SISTER 
BEATRICE,  THE  BLUE  BIRD  and  MARY  MAGDALENE,  Rostand's 
CHANTECLER  and  Pinero's  MID-CHANNEL  and  THE  THUNDER- 
BOLT— among  the  notable  plays  by  some  of  Dr.  Hale's  drama- 
tists— have  been  acted  here.  Discussions  of  them  are  added 
to  this  new  edition,  as  are  considerations  of  Bernard  Shaw's 
and  Stephen  Phillips'  latest  plays.  The  author's  papers  on 
Hauptmann  and  Sudermann,  with  slight  additions,  with  his 
"Note  on  Standards  of  Criticism,"  "Our  Idea  of  Tragedy," 
and  an  appendix  of  all  the  plays  of  each  author,  with  dates  of 
their  first  performance  or  publication,  complete  the  volume. 

Bookman :  "  He  writes  in  a  pleasant,  free-and-easy  -way.  .  .  .  He 
accepts  things  chiefly  at  their  face  value,  but  he  describes  them  so  ac- 
curately and  agreeably  that  he  recalls  vividly  to  mind  the  plays  we 
have  seen  and  the  pleasure  we  have  found  in  them." 

New  York  Evening  Post :  "  It  is  not  often  nowadays  that  a  theatrical 
b'jok  can  be  met  with  so  free  from  gush  and  mere  eulogy,  or  so  weighted 
by  common  sense  ...  an  excellent  chronological  appendix  and  full 
index  .  .  .  uncommonly  useful  for  reference." 

Dial:  "  Noteworthy  example  of  literary  criticism  in  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  literary  fields.  .  .  .  Provides  a  varied  menu  of  the 
most  interesting  character.  .  .  .  Prof.  Hale  establishes  confidential 
relations  with  the  reader  from  the  start.  .  .  .  Very  definite  opinions, 
clearly  reasoned  and  amply  fortified  by  example.  .  .  .  Well  worth 
reading  a  second  time." 

New  York  Tribune:    "Both  instructive  and  entertaining." 

Brooklyn  Eagle:  "A  dramatic  critic  who  is  not  just  'busting'  him- 
self with  Titanic  intellectualities,  but  who  is  a  readable  dramatic  critic. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Hale  is  a  modest  and  sensible,  as  well  as  an  acute  and  sound 
critic.  .  .  .  Most  people  will  be  surprised  and  delighted  with  Mr. 
Hale's  simplicity,  perspicuity  and  ingenuousness." 

The  Theatre:  "A  pleasing  lightness  of  touch.  .  .  .  Very  read- 
able book." 


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